


fondre ton absence

by scrunchyharry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Amnesia, First Love, M/M, One Direction Big Bang, POV Third Person, Soldier Louis, Soulmates, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 20:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18289550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrunchyharry/pseuds/scrunchyharry
Summary: Harry had never really given much thought to the future. He preferred to let life steer him forward and to follow in the footsteps of Louis, his best friend from as far as his memory went, his lover, his everything. Louis knew better than he did what was good for him.It changed drastically when Louis was ripped away from him, drafted and sent to the front to fight in a war that Harry had always been sure would never reach him. Too young and too sickly to follow, Harry was left on his own for the first time in his life.When he thought things could not possibly get worse, Louis went missing at the Somme and was declared dead. While everyone buried and mourned him, Harry never moved on. If Louis were dead, he was sure that he would know it. Their lives were too entwined, he would know if half of his heart had died.Determined to find Louis, Harry did everything he could in his quest to be reunited with him, except prepare for the state Louis might be in.He did not prepare for the harsh truth he would have to face: was love possible without memories?





	fondre ton absence

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a long time in the making, the first few thousands words were written nearly five years ago. The idea came to me as a sort of _A Very Long Engagement_ AU and would not leave my mind.
> 
> A wonderful, immense, gigantic thank you to [whenthebodiesspeak](http://whenthebodiesspeak.tumblr.com/) for the incredible art she did for me and to [brokenheartsgoupthere](http://brokenheartsgoupthere.tumblr.com/) for the work she put into correcting my grammar, and spelling, and grasp of the difference between dawn and dusk. My French Canadian quasi-fluency in English thanks you.
> 
> The title comes from a haunting song that I couldn't get out of my mind for weeks called "Pouvoirs de glace" by an artist under the name of Tire le coyote.

**April 1916**

A warm breeze rustled the bare tree branches as Harry pedalled down the road. Gravel crunched underneath the wheels of his bicycle, the sounds lost beneath the wild, rushing white noise of the nearby river. He kept a steady pace, fast enough to make it to the village and back before his mother needed help to prepare dinner, but slow enough that his capricious lungs could withstand it. His pocket hung heavy with the money distant relatives had sent him for his 17th birthday, with the insistence that he spend it on himself, which was exactly why he was headed for the village. 

He approached the Tomlinsons’ house, waving at one of the twins who was crouching by the front steps, elbow deep in the dirt. Harry slowed down to a stop and smiled down at her, squinting his eyes against the pale April sun. 

“May I ask what you’re doing?” 

The girl looked up and Harry squinted some more, looking for the minute differences he knew well: a half-moon shaped scar above the left eyebrow, a chipped front tooth: Daisy. “We’re looking for earthworms. Phoebe’s behind the house.” 

“Worms? Charlotte upset you again?” 

Nodding exaggeratedly, Daisy sighed in a way so similar to her brother that Harry couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Quite. She’s convinced she’s, hum…” Daisy scrunched up her face under the efforts of remembering the name of Charlotte’s latest fictional role model, “… Catherine Earnshaw and refuses to leave her room, threatening to escape to the moors, never to come back.” 

“And the worms?” 

“A present. Mum sends her food. It’s my turn tonight to bring it to her.” 

“I should probably try to talk you out of this,” Harry commented, frowning despite his amusement. 

Truthfully, he sided with the twins, finding Charlotte’s bouts of dramatic re-enactments of whichever novel she’d read quite frustrating. The month and a half where she had pretended to be Jane Eyre had put everyone on edge, driving Louis out of his house and into Harry’s for several days. 

Maybe he should let Charlotte pretend to be a Brontë heroine, after all. 

“But you won’t?” Daisy asked, grinning up at Harry. 

“I was never here.” 

Harry kicked off the ground and pedalled away, accompanied by Daisy’s bell-like giggles and laughing to himself as he imagined the look on Charlotte’s face when she discovered the twins’ surprise. He knew and loved those girls as much as his own sister, having seen them grow up into feisty young women, driven by the same nervous energy that animated Louis. 

Louis. Louis, Louis, Louis, Louis, _Louis_ . The name bounced around the inside of Harry’s head, putting a smile on his face and making his heart flutter. Louis, who spent his days giving a hand to a distant neighbour whose only son had enrolled before the winter, leaving him alone to tend to his livestock, before coming home and helping his own family. Louis, who flitted here and there, offering help and support to families ravaged by the war, never stopping to take a second for himself. Louis, who had been part of Harry’s life as far back as his memory would go, always one step ahead of him, and grinning as he waited for Harry to catch up. Louis, whose life was intricately intertwined with Harry’s to the point where he couldn’t tell where his own ended and where Louis’ began. He smiled fondly and quickened his pace, thinking that he might be able to catch him on the road before he got home for supper and enjoy a few minutes away from indiscreet eyes. 

The Tomlinsons’ house was the last one between his own house and the village and, for the next ten minutes, Harry had nothing but his thoughts and open fields to keep him company.  The road was uneven and muddy under the wheels of his bicycle, sodden and destroyed by the winter, forcing him to pay close attention to where he was going unless he wanted to get his front wheel stuck in a hole and end up lying flat on his stomach in the mud. It had happened before. Louis loved to remind him at least once a month. 

The air was cold and bit at Harry’s cheeks despite the warm, lazy breeze. The smell of fresh dirt and manure hung heavy in the air, prickling his nose. Spring was finally settling in, this being the first nice day they had had that year, and Harry felt like singing. He did, eventually, humming a nursery rhyme he had heard the twins singing the day before when he came over to see Louis. He swerved out of the way when half a dozen children crossed his path, laughing as they walked back home from school. At least four of them had the same ginger hair. Harry recognised them as the children living at the very end of the road, a good three miles from where they were. He felt a twinge of sympathy for them and waved when they called his name, tugging playfully on the youngest’s plait as he rode past her. 

He was glad to be out of his house for the first time in months. With his asthma, walking in the snow to the village had always been a problem, the effort too much for his weak lungs and he had been a sickly, coughing child because of it. It was only in the past two years, after he had finished school and stopped having to walk two miles twice a day, that his health had improved to the point where he could count on one hand the number of attacks he had had in the past year. With a stronger health came the possibility to use a bicycle, which he had seized without hesitating. 

Entering the village, Harry got off his bicycle and started walking next to it. He slowly made his way through the streets, waving here and there at the people who called his name with greetings, a smile plastered on his face the entire time. He turned a corner and walked by the bakery, stopping in front of the window even if he knew it was a terrible idea. He licked his lips with hunger as he looked at the fresh bread and luscious cakes on display, digging a hand in his pocket to touch the money he kept there. He could walk in and spend all of his birthday present on a cake to bring back home, which he could split between himself and his parents. There would be leftovers, which he would bring over to the Tomlinsons. It would be a good way to spend his money; it would make a lot of people happy. 

Tearing his eyes away from the window, he shook his head and continued, getting deeper into the village. This was not why he had come. He could bake cakes, decadent ones covered with fresh strawberries, even if he had not had the chance to do so since the beginning of the war. There were no rations, so he might have been able to get his hands on the supplies necessary, but it felt like an outrageous waste of food. 

The crowd thickened as he neared the social hall, forcing him to go slowly so he did not roll over anyone’s foot with his bicycle. Finally tying it to a tree by the side of the building, Harry pushed open the door and smiled at the sight. Rows upon rows of tables had been set up and they were piled high with books. In an effort to support the families whose sons and husbands had enrolled, people had been encouraged to give away books from their personal libraries to be sold. The profits would go to help support those families, which was honourable and wonderful and all that, but Harry would be lying if he said this was his motive for being there. The truth was simple: second-hand books were the only books he could afford and, considering he had read everything his and Louis’ families owned, he was looking forward to the possibility of adding two or three titles to his collection. 

He started at the front, slowly walking down the rows. He had a plan and it was rather simple; he would pick a book if the title was appealing and then would read the first page. If it did not get him interested, he would put it back and continue on his way. If it did, he would keep it. The final choice would come at the end. 

Some of the books were bound in richly coloured leather, deep reds and greens, marine blues, warm browns. Others were paperbacks, dog-eared and smelling like dust and humidity. Making his way through the hall, he realised he preferred the leather ones, stroking their spines almost lovingly and burying his nose between the pages before he even bothered with reading the titles, even if he knew that he would not be able to afford one. 

The pile in his hands was big enough to make his arms sore by the time he reached the back of the room. He was drawing attention to himself, people quietly chuckling whenever he narrowly avoided dropping everything, and he knew why: a young gangly boy dressed in threadbare clothes carrying around well over thirty books. They probably thought he did not know how to read. At first, it had left him indifferent, his attention entirely on the books, but as the hour wore on, he was beginning to feel the weight of their judgement on his shoulders. Louis would have brushed it off and joked about it, but Louis wasn’t there and Harry was starting to feel self-conscious. Grabbing one last book at random, he carried his pile to a quiet corner and cautiously placed it on the floor before sitting down and letting out a heavy sigh. 

For the first time since he entered the building, he looked at the prices written on the cardboard pieces slipped inside the books, which confirmed his earlier guess. The leather-bound books would have to go. He went through them one by one, stroking their covers one last time before making a neat pile of them on his left. The last one he picked he took the time to trace the embossed letters with his fingers, especially heartbroken over leaving it aside because it was the cover that had drawn him to it. Poetry was not his cup of tea, but the embossing of the title, _Leaves of Grass_ , had seduced him. It looked so rich and sophisticated, two adjectives he would never apply to anything he owned. 

Flipping the book open, Harry’s eyes widened when he read “ _Brooklyn, New York: 1855_ .” This book had travelled more than he ever would, and he knew in that moment that he would leave the building with it, even if it were the only thing he bought. Opening to a random page, Harry read, his eyebrows knitted together in concentration and his eyes widening more and more as the meaning of the words sunk in: “ _Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you, with the comrade’s long-dwelling kiss or the new husband’s kiss, for I am the new husband and I am the comrade_ .” 

Harry snapped his head up, looking around wildly as he felt his cheeks burning, convinced that every single person milling about the room knew that he was reading something that he certainly was not allowed to. How that book had slipped through the triage to end up innocently on a table amongst Austen and Dickens he did not know, but he knew that someone had not done their job properly because here he was, reading about a man – he checked the spine for the author’s name, breathing out a shaky sigh when his eyes glided over the name _Walt Whitman_ ; a man – asking another man to kiss him, and no one seemed to be aware that his entire world was shattering with the realisation that it was entirely possible that what he and Louis had was not, after all, a twisted perversion. 

Clutching the book to his chest, Harry planned his course of action. He would rise and collect the books scattered around him to go and place them back on the nearest table. Then, he would calmly walk over to the lady at the front of the room who was in charge of the till. Once he had bought the book, he would, still calmly, walk out of the building and go back home, where he would hide the book under his mattress lest his mother found it and realised he had brought filth inside the house. And only then would he seek Louis and share his discovery with him. 

A flaw in his plan arose immediately: his mother would want to know what he bought and would not believe that he came home empty-handed. Looking at the books around him, he picked one of the paperbacks, a water-ruined thing with a title and an author he had never seen before. Added to _Leaves of Grass_ , his birthday money could cover the two of them and then he would have something to show his mother. With a resolute nod, Harry rose to his feet and gathered the books, trying to act as normally as he could, even as he felt like the volume tucked under his arm was burning a hole through his skin. 

After dropping the books on a table, and straightening the pile when it threatened to topple over, Harry walked over to the till. He wiped his clammy hands on his trousers, hoping that he was subtle enough at it that no one would notice, and took his place in line, keeping his head as high as he could while feeling the weight of curious gazes on him. Handing only the slip of paper with the price written on it to the lady he recognised as the sister of the vicar, his heart hammering in his chest, Harry dug inside his pocket and retrieved his small fortune, counting carefully and giving the right amount. He realised that he had enough left over to stop by the bakery and buy himself and Louis a pastry to share later that evening, and it was with a happy smile that he walked out of the social hall, his treasure held close to his chest. 

Going back to his bicycle, Harry carefully placed the books in the front basket and untied it to make his way to the bakery, already wondering what he would get them. He was about to head there when a poster on the board by the hall’s door caught his attention. He had not noticed it coming in, he was too eager to look through the books, but now it was staring him right in the face, the bold lettering looking like bad news against the yellowed paper. Turning his bicycle around, he stepped closer and felt his blood go cold. 

_The Military Service Act 1916_ , the poster read, _applies to unmarried men who, on August 15_ _th_ _, 1915, were 18 years of age or over and who will not be 41 years of age on March 2_ _nd_ _, 1916_ . _ALL MEN (not excepted or exempted), between the above ages who, on November 2_ _nd_ _, 1915, were Unmarried or Widowers without any Child dependent on them will, on Thursday, March 2_ _nd_ _, 1916 be deemed to be enlisted for the period of the war._

The poster was weather-beaten, confirming to Harry that it had been up there for more than a month already. It had been a month since Louis had been drafted and no one had thought about telling him. Because he knew that they all knew; every adult in his life had come to the village at least once in the past month, they were wont to have seen that poster. Harry, housebound as he was in the winter, had been kept blissfully ignorant of the fact that his—that Louis was— 

He felt his throat constrict and his breath shorten as what the poster was telling him started to sink in. Louis was 19. Louis had been enlisted. 

Louis was going to war. 

He was going to lose Louis, probably forever, and there was nothing he could do about it. Jumping back on his bicycle, Harry ignored the cries of indignation as he turned away from the board and towards his house, pedalling fast, too fast for his lungs, which started to burn before he was even out of the village. 

He kept on pedalling, focusing on the repetitive motions of his legs rather than on the tightness in his chest or the tears running down his cheeks. He did not know when he had started crying, and he certainly did not know if he would survive this race against his own limited capacities, but he knew one thing: he had to get home. He could not crumble until he was home. He clung to this single thought, _go home, go home, go home_ ; it was the only thing tethering him to consciousness. There was a rushing white noise in his ears and he felt dizzy from panic, shock, and lack of oxygen. He gulped in spasmodic breaths that felt like sobs as the open fields flew by in his peripheral vision, then the Tomlinsons’ house, and then, at last, when he felt like he was about to throw up and faint, his own. He let his bicycle fall to the ground and climbed the front steps on wobbling legs, crashing through the door and stumbling until he could hold on to the back of a chair, wheezing, coughing, sobbing, and trembling. 

He let it all come to him, his panic crashing over him like a destructive wave. Louis was going to die. His days were numbered and their time together was coming to an end. He was never going to see him again, he would have to live his entire life without Louis. They had wanted to grow old together, but now he would have to do it alone while Louis’ broken body would be lost amongst the thousands of fallen soldiers. He would never get to come home to his loved ones, he would be lost to all of them. Louis was going to die. Louis was going to die. _Louis was going to die_ . 

Harry heard his mother run down the stairs, calling his name, but he did not have the breath to call back. He collapsed into a chair, doubling over as his lungs fought for breath against the sobs that kept shaking him, tears pouring freely from his eyes. Of the influx of fears that had first hit him, only two thoughts remained, circling around in his head over and over again:. ‘ _I’m going to die if I don’t breathe_ ’ and ‘ _Louis is going to die_ ,’ feeding each other in a never ending cycle. 

“Harry, sweetheart, calm down,” she said, kneeling next to him and rubbing soothing circles on his back. “You’re all right, darling. You’re safe. Just try to calm down.” 

“I can’t—I can’t breathe,” he wheezed, the effort of speaking making him cough. “I—I—Mum, I can’t—” 

“Of course, you can, my love, I know you can,” she cooed, stroking his hair like she had done so many times before. 

Harry shook his head. She did not understand. How could she not understand? Harry’s entire world was collapsing around him and it felt absurd and obscene to be sitting in his kitchen. Everything was too mundane next to the hurricane that was raging on inside his head. How could people still go on with their lives, how could his mother be so calm when all Harry wanted was to destroy everything he could reach. To smash it all to pieces, so it might help calm down the cataclysm he was enduring alone, or at the very least reflect it. “Louis—” 

“Will be home shortly, darling.” 

“No!” he coughed, and inhaled in a gasp before letting out another sob. “S’not asthma—it’s Louis, he’s—” more coughing, more sobs, and the feeling like his brain was shutting down from the lack of oxygen, “—enlisted, he’s—” 

“Oh.” 

The single syllable carried with it the weight of his mother’s culpability. She already knew. Getting up without a word, she left the room and Harry wrapped his arms around his stomach, feeling lightheaded as his lungs still refused to take in the air they so desperately needed. His tears blurred his vision and when black and white dots flashed before his eyes, he felt his panic rise even higher. He was about to faint, that was the sign, and if he fainted he would not be able to take the medicine his mother had undoubtedly gone to fetch, and if he could not take the medicine his lungs would never relax and he would die. He was going to die on his kitchen floor and he would never see Louis again, he would never— 

“Harold, whatever you’re thinking about, stop, you’re making it worse. Sit up.” 

His mother’s voice was hard and jolted him out of his panic long enough to obey and lean against the back of the chair. “Drink this.” 

Harry let her put the cup to his lips, closing his eyes and grimacing against the taste of the medicine. He choked a little, his throat protesting against the liquid, which triggered another coughing fit. He let out a whine and wiped at his cheeks, leaning into his mother when she stepped closer to hold his head against her stomach, stroking his hair soothingly. 

He felt it the moment the medicine started working. A fog slowly spread through his mind, blanketing everything in a grey haze that he welcomed and thankfully sunk into. His body began feeling loose and heavy. He leaned in more against his mother and took in a long, deep breath, then another, and he hummed in relief. 

“M’sleepy.” 

His mother laughed quietly. “Come, darling. Let’s get you to bed.” 

Harry fell asleep as soon as his head hit his pillow, his mind blissfully empty of all worries. 

*** 

Louis had always preferred Harry’s room to his own. To be honest, as a child, he had been more than a little jealous. It sat in the corner of the house, which meant that two of the walls had windows, giving it an airy feeling that Louis had come to associate with Harry; whether the room reflected the boy or the boy had grown to reflect the room, he would never know. But in his head, when he thought about Harry, he thought of cosiness and sunlight. The walls were painted white, the paint peeling near the ceiling in one corner after a particularly rough winter had caused a water infiltration. A few frames hung on the walls, remnants of Harry’s childhood, just like the toys still piled haphazardly at the bottom of the cupboard. The door to it, on the opposite wall from the bed, was ajar, and Louis could guess the shapes of Harry’s shirts through the darkness inside. The most interesting part of Harry’s room, though, the one that was entirely him, were the books neatly lined on a plank of wood hung on the wall, that Harry used as a bookshelf. Makeshift bookends held the books up; on one side it was a faded ornament in the shape of a clown that used to terrify Louis when he was younger, and on the other, a large rock that Harry had found and painted white. Underneath the bookshelf was a small desk and its matching chair. On top of the desk were Harry’s school book’s, neatly piled and untouched for two years, alongside a few of his belongings, untidily left as though as a sign that the room was, despite all appearances, inhabited. 

Louis shut the book when he heard Harry stirring. Looking up, he saw the younger boy scratch his cheek before he opened his eyes, blinking blearily a few times before closing them again. Louis stretched out his leg to push Harry’s, mindful of the candle he had used to be able to read. 

“Hey, no more sleep Harold. You have a guest.” 

Harry opened his eyes again, and Louis could almost hear the cogs slowly start to turn in his head, as his eyes searched the room, unfocused, until they landed on Louis. A sleepy smile spread on his face as he rubbed his right eye with a yawn. 

“Lou?” he croaked out, voice rough with sleep. 

“Do you have another friend who likes to watch you sleep that I should know about? We’d probably get along well, come to think of it. Hey, Haz, you should introduce us.” 

“What?” Harry blinked slowly, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion, and Louis understood at once. 

“Your mother gave you some of that opium shit again, didn’t she?” 

Sitting up slowly, Harry rubbed his eyes once more. His hair was matted on one side, sticking up on the other, and his pillow had imprinted on his face, making him look closer to 7 than to 17. He cleared his throat and coughed dryly, reaching for the glass of water Anne had asked Louis to bring up with him. He took a few gulps and then sighed before leaning against his pillows and turning back to Louis, looking almost startled to find him sitting at the foot of his bed. He was drugged out of his mind.

“Had an attack,” Harry drawled, voice scratchy from what Louis now knew was coughing too much. “‘S the only thing that makes me breathe, you know that.” 

“I know, darling, but it doesn’t mean I like seeing you in this state.” 

“I slept most of it off, I think. What time is it?” 

“It’s a little after eight, I’m afraid you’ve missed dinner, dearest. Are you hungry?” 

Harry nodded and yawned again. “I think so.” 

“You think you’re hungry or you’re hungry? There’s a difference,” Louis said with a smirk, which stretched into a grin when Harry huffed. “I’ll go get you something, don’t move.” 

“Don’t think I could even if I wanted to.” 

Louis made his way downstairs to fetch the plate Anne had laid aside for Harry, taking the candle with him. She was in the kitchen when he entered, working on a needlepoint by the light of a tarnished oil lamp. Looking up, she smiled at Louis. 

“How is he?” 

“Groggy, but his breathing is good.” 

Anne’s eyes lingered on Louis for a moment, the flame of the lamp dancing in them. Louis cleared his throat before grabbing the plate and a fork, and turned for the door. Anne opened her mouth to say something, but closed it as if she had changed her mind, and shook her head. 

“Don’t keep him up too late. He needs rest.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Louis said with a salute, before climbing the stairs to get back to Harry’s room, closing the door behind him. 

He placed the plate on Harry’s nightstand and opened the drawer to retrieve a packet of matches. He cracked one and carefully lifted the glass globe of the lamp, lighting it and placing the globe back in place before adjusting the flame. He blew out the candle and placed it down safely. 

“Your mother kept this for you, it seems to be some sort of stew.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Louis picked up the fork and pushed the food around, scrunching up his nose. “I think I see carrots.” 

When he glanced at Harry, he looked much more alert than he had before Louis went downstairs and it made him smile with relief. Harry returned the smile and picked up his plate, pulling his knees up to rest it on them. 

“I didn’t get a proper greeting,” Harry said, lifting an eyebrow. 

“And neither will you until you’ve eaten what your mother cooked for you.” 

Louis mimicked Harry’s expression until his face softened and he laughed, grabbing the fork and digging into his meal. 

Louis returned to the foot of the bed and picked up the book he was reading earlier, moving his finger slowly across the embossing on the cover. He had found it, and an inane railway station paperback, lying on the ground in front of the house next to Harry’s bicycle. He picked them up on his way in, knowing already what Anne was going to tell him: Harry had had an attack, he is sleeping it off, don’t wake him up, he needs to get his strength back. There was something he needed to tell Harry, but it would have to wait. He would not risk upsetting him a few short hours after his latest episode. 

Besides, it was not exactly something he was looking forward to telling Harry. The letter had come in the post two days before, and even though he had been expecting it, it had knocked the air out of him and left him feeling half-dead. He had been going through his daily routine as if he was sleepwalking, unfocused and disconnected from everything around him. Everything seemed futile and meaningless now that he was a dead man walking, destined to serve as cannon fodder. 

Most of his friends had enlisted voluntarily when the first Kitchener campaigns went up. The thought had not even crossed Louis’ mind and he had figured he was the odd one, that most men would rise up to the call and take arms in droves. Too many people depended on him; he could not leave. His sisters and mother needed him, his neighbours needed the help. Harry—Harry could not function without Louis, he would be lost without him. He could not enroll without abandoning everyone who counted on him, and that was why he had spent the past year and a half helping everyone he could, to try and rid himself of the guilt and shame he felt about not enlisting. In his mind it was clear that the needs of his loved ones outweighed that of his country, but he could feel the judging stares of those whose sons had left, probably never to return. 

But he would have to go to war, after all. He would have to leave everyone behind. He would have to tell Harry that he had been drafted and handle his reaction, which he knew would be disastrous. He had to break Harry’s heart and that would destroy him more than bombs ever could. 

Clearing his throat against the knot in it, Louis shoved at Harry’s leg with his foot. “Are you done eating? We need to talk about your risqué literary choices.” He waved the book and Harry let out a small laugh before biting his lip. 

“Do you know it?” 

“I know _of_ it, yes. How in the world did you get your hands on a copy? You know it’s banned in America, right?” 

Harry’s eyes widened and he shook his head, looking equal parts scandalised and thrilled. “I didn’t know, no. Why?” 

“Don’t pretend that you don’t know. Did you get to the part where he’s talking about kissing men, yet?” The giggle Harry let out answered Louis’ question and he smiled fondly. “You didn’t answer my question. How’d you get it?” 

“The book sale in the village. It was lying there on a table, innocently waiting for me to find it. What was I supposed to do?” 

“Buy it so you can read it with your best friend, obviously.” 

“ _Obviously_ . I’m glad we agree.” 

Placing his empty plate back on the nightstand, Harry held out a hand for Louis. “Can I get my greeting, now?” 

Louis smiled and dropped the book on the bed before crawling to straddle Harry’s thighs. He took Harry’s face in his hands and stroked his cheekbones, noticing that Harry’s eyes looked red and swollen. He filed that away as a side-effect of not being able to breathe and leaned in to kiss him, just a small brush of his lips against Harry’s. 

“Good evening, darling,” Louis whispered. 

Harry’s hands flew to Louis’ waist and he pulled him in closer, returning the kiss and nibbling Louis’ lips lightly before pulling away. “Good evening to you, too. It’s been a while, I missed you.” Louis did not need to see his face to know he was sulking. 

He laughed. “It’s been two days, love.” 

With a shrug, Harry kissed him again. “A single minute away from you feels like an eternity.” 

Panic rose inside Louis. He could not tell Harry that he would have to leave him with no guarantee of his return. Harry was right: two days apart was a long time. The longest they had gone was a week, when Louis had had to go to Manchester for a distant great-aunt’s funeral. Apart from that week, they had spent the last fifteen years seeing each other almost every day, spending most of their waking hours together. Harry was like an extension of himself, the continuation of his personality. He had grown up into the person he was with Harry right by his side and it felt wrong when he wasn’t there, like a part of him was missing. And this was without mentioning that being two years older, and given Harry’s health, it was second nature for him to take care of Harry and protect him from any harm that might come to him. How was he supposed to tell him that he was leaving? How could he possibly destroy Harry like that? 

“Lou, where are you? I’ve lost you.” Harry nudged his nose against Louis’ and he forced himself to smile. 

“I’m right here, love. With you.” 

“Maybe physically, yes, but your mind’s not here. I can hear you thinking. What bothers you?” Harry kissed him lightly. “Is there something you need to tell me?” 

Louis exhaled loudly and sat back, shifting his weight on Harry’s lap and scrunching up his face. “I don’t want to lie to you, but I can’t tell you now. I promise I’ll tell you soon.” 

“Before or after you leave for the front?” Harry snapped, eyebrows drawn together in a hard line. 

Licking his lips, Louis took the time to choose his words carefully. He reached up to stroke Harry’s arms as he tried to find what to say, but he was drawing a blank. Harry’s eyes stared at him unwaveringly, his accusing and hurt gaze too much for Louis to hold. He bowed his head. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me? My mother knew.” 

“Everyone knows,” Louis said, clearing his throat against how weakly his voice had come out. 

“Why?” 

“I didn’t know how to tell you. I—I was selfish and didn’t want to spoil our short time left together.” 

“How long have you known?” 

“Lottie saw the poster in the village last month. I only got my letter two days ago.” He still could not look at Harry’s eyes, could not bear to see the hurt and resentment in them, even if he knew he deserved it, instead keeping his eyes locked on the bare white wall behind the bed. 

“I saw the poster, too. Today.” 

Louis’ stomach churned and he winced. “Your attack...?” 

“Yes.” 

Swallowing with difficulty, Louis got off Harry’s lap to sit with his back against the wall, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. “I leave in twelve days,” he finally said when the silence between them became too much. 

Harry let out a shuddering breath and he covered his face with his hands, shaking his head. Louis reached out and stroked his leg while he waited for Harry to speak, listening to his breathing to make sure it continued to come out normally. With his long limbs and large hands, Harry looked out of place in the small bed, like he’d outgrown his childhood bedroom. 

Lowering his hands, Harry looked at Louis, eyes brimming with tears. “Twelve days,” he rasped. “You only gave us twelve days for goodbyes.” 

“I’m sorry,” Louis said through the knot in his throat. “I couldn’t… There was no way I could tell you without breaking your heart. I only wanted to protect you.” 

“I’m not a child, you didn’t have to lie to me.” 

“I didn’t lie to you. I’d never lie to you, Haz, you have to believe me.” 

“What’s the difference between hiding the truth and disguising it? You still weren’t honest with me. It’s not like you didn’t tell me who ate the last biscuit, you hid the fact that our days together are numbered.” 

Louis frowned at the accusation. “What’s the use of arguing over what I did wrong, when in two weeks I’m leaving everyone I love to face certain death? This is hard for you, but it’s harder for me.” 

“Harder than staying behind and having to wait every day for a letter that’ll tell me you’re dead?” 

“Yes, Harold, going to war will be harder than safely sitting at home baking cakes,” Louis spat out, regretting his words immediately as he watched Harry’s face turn sour. “I’m sorry, love, I didn’t—” 

Harry shook his head. “No need to apologise, I was out of line. I’m just… I’m so angry. Not at you, but at this entire fucking situation. It’s not fair.” 

Louis let out a dry laugh. “You’re telling me. I’ve been so angry for the past month, I’m barely keeping it in. I want to destroy something, or set a house or myself on fire. Anger is the only thing that’s kept me sane since I found out.” 

“Come here.” 

Harry reached out and pulled at Louis’ sleeve until he kicked off his shoes and shifted to sit against the headboard, between Harry and the wall, pushing his legs underneath the covers and letting himself be wrapped up in Harry’s arms. He sighed and closed his eyes, resting his head on Harry’s chest. It was so like Harry to pull him in through touches when he could feel him drifting away. The idea of cuddling with Harry usually enough to calm him down before they had even started. When words failed Harry, he spoke with his hands, and the way they stroked up and down Louis’ back was more comforting than anything he might have tried to say. 

“Are you scared?” 

Louis shook his head. There would be time for fear later, his entire life would be narrowed down to the claustrophobic stranglehold of fear in a couple of weeks, and he refused to give in to it before its time. He was going to live before he died, even if it meant concentrating a lifetime into twelve days. “I try not to think about it.” 

“I am.” 

Looking up, he saw that Harry’s eyes were once more filled with tears. 

“Hey, love, no, don’t cry.” He gently wiped the paper-thin skin underneath Harry’s eye’s with his thumb and kissed his jaw. “We can’t spend the next two weeks crying, alright? I don’t want my last memories of you to be goodbyes.” He cradled Harry’s face in his hand, forcing him to look at him. “I’m not dead yet.” 

Harry sniffled and nodded, turning his head to kiss Louis’ palm. “You’re right, of course. I want to give you good memories before you leave. Are there things you’ve always wanted to do but never got the chance? Because now would be the time to do them.” 

“I’ll think about it. I’ll make a list.” 

Harry nodded and yawned, slipping lower against the pillows. “You do that. Do you want to accidentally fall asleep in my bed?” 

Louis smiled and got more comfortable against Harry, pulling the covers higher over them. “I could do that, yes.” Harry shifted underneath him to turn off the lamp and then wrapped his arms around Louis, holding him tightly. “I love you, Haz.” 

“Love you, too.” 

*** 

Mornings were Harry’s new favourite time of the day: for a few blissful seconds, he did not know that Louis was leaving. During those fleeting moments he could just lie in bed and enjoy the sound of birds chirping outside, and of his mother cooking breakfast downstairs, without the leaden feeling of anxiety weighing him down. He could plan his day around Louis’ schedule and he had hope for the future. 

But then his body would slowly wake up, and with the return of consciousness would come the fear. At first it would be so big and all-encompassing that Harry’s breath quickened and became laboured, forcing him to sit up straight and grip his blankets until his knuckles turned white. It was as if all of the fear he was spared during the night violently fought to be felt all at once; it felt like being punished for having dared to hope that things were all right. Once the first wave was gone, and the whirlwind of _Louis will die, Louis will die, I’m going to lose him_ had calmed down to a dull ache, Harry was ready to get out of bed. 

It had been two days since he got the news, and despite his best efforts to refrain from counting down, he could not help the way the latent anxiety he carried with him flared up for a second at the thought that he only had ten days left with Louis. Harry balled up his fists and forced his lungs to breathe in slowly, closing his eyes for a second or two before shaking his head and going down the stairs. Louis was right: it was better not to think about it until they had no other choice. It would only ruin what little time they had left. With that final thought, he took a deep breath and choked on the rank smell of burnt food and smoke that hit him as soon as he stepped off the stairs. 

“Shit!” he heard coming from the kitchen. “Fuck, no, please, why are you—Christ!” 

Harry smiled. Louis was cooking. 

The sight that greeted him when he entered the kitchen was one he made sure to commit to memory. Louis was standing in front of the stove, pulling his hair as a column of smoke rose from a pan. Burnt pieces of toast were set on a plate, glistening with butter. Two teacups were placed next to it, one of them chipped. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Harry said, laughing when Louis jumped at the sound of his voice. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but the kettle interrupted him by letting out a shrill whistle that sent Louis back to the stove to take it off the fire. He filled the teapot with water, and then threw a handful of leaves inside, before closing it with enough force to make the porcelain clink. All the while, the pan continued to fill the room with an acrid cloud of smoke. Harry went around and started opening windows, coughing all the while. 

“Tea. We’re going to have tea for breakfast,” Louis let out angrily, finally taking the pan off the fire and abandoning it on the counter. 

Harry moved over to the counter and retrieved the pan before it burned a hole in the wood. He placed it in the sink, smiling fondly at Louis’ anger. 

“Eggs?” Harry asked, squinting at the contents of the pan. 

“Eggs and toast. I wanted to surprise you, but I’m a fucking nuisance in the kitchen.” 

Harry hummed in reply, scraping the burnt eggs off the pan and throwing them in the bin before pumping water to wash it, talking to Louis all the while. “You are, yes. It’s endearing. What happened?” 

Louis sighed dramatically and hopped to sit on the counter. “Everything was going fine, but then the bread started burning and while I was taking care of it, the eggs stuck to the pan and I couldn’t scrape them off quickly enough to save them.” 

“Did you butter the pan?” Harry asked as he did just that, rolling his eyes to see blackened bread crumbs covering the butter. He glanced at Louis in time to see him bite his lip with a frown. 

“Why would I do that?” 

“So it doesn’t stick?” 

“Oh. Shit.” 

Harry laughed and abandoned the pan for a second, going over to Louis and stepping between his legs to plant a kiss on his lips, resting his hands on Louis’ thighs. “Nuisance is the right word, I’m afraid,” he said against his lips, letting Louis pull him in closer and kiss him with more insistence. Harry returned the kisses for a while, smiling and melting against him. He laughed when he pulled away and Louis let out a whine, tugging on his shirt. “I have to cook. Don’t you have tea to take care of?” 

Eyes widening, Louis scrambled off the counter and poured the tea into the teacups, tasting one and cringing. “I even ruined tea today. There’s no hope.” 

Cracking the eggs into the pan, Harry shook his head. “There’s always hope. One day, I’ll make a decent cook out of you.” 

“You have ten days,” Louis said and Harry’s breath caught in his throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.” 

Harry focused on the frying eggs. “Don’t worry. We have to talk about it.” 

Louis’ arms wrapped around his waist and he leant his head against Harry’s shoulder. “Doesn’t mean I want to.” 

Closing his eyes for a moment, Harry tried to enjoy the solid presence of Louis against his back without thinking about how he would soon only have the phantom memory of it, but he failed and his shoulders slumped as he bowed his head. Louis must have sensed the shift in his emotions because he began stroking Harry’s stomach through his shirt in soothing motions. 

“I made a list,” Louis said, voice muffled by Harry’s shoulder. 

Harry flipped the eggs and nodded. Even if it had been Harry’s idea, the list now seemed to confirm the fact that Louis was leaving. It made it tangible because they were taking action about it. Pretending it was not going to happen kept it at a safe distance. 

“Let’s have a look at it, yeah?” Harry placed the eggs on two plates and brought them over to the table while Louis took care of their tea and the burnt toast. 

“There’s not much on it, I’ve only been thinking about it since yesterday, but we don’t have much time, so…” Louis trailed off, unfolding a piece of paper on the table between them before taking a bite of his egg. 

Harry flipped the sheet around so he could read it. “ _Learn to bake a cake_ , that one is easy.” He grabbed a piece of toast from the pile and took a bite, choked on the taste, but continued to eat it. “ _Swim in the river_ , easy as well. Cold, but easy.” 

“Phoebe was with me, so that’s not all of it.” Louis bit his lip. “I meant to add ‘naked’ and ‘with Harry’ to it.” 

Harry cleared his throat, his cheeks on fire. “Right. It can be done, too. We’re probably going to freeze to death, but we can do it.” He smiled at Louis before going back to the list. “ _Stay awake all night to watch the stars and the sunrise._ Easy as well. I’m glad you don’t have wishes like flying or getting married. I don’t have to say no to you.” 

“There are a lot I didn’t write because they can’t be done.” Harry prompted him on by raising his eyebrow, Louis continued. “I would love to marry you, or take you to Paris or New York. I’d love to ride on an aeroplane and raise children. I want to go back to school and move to London. I want to go to the theatre at least once and I want to see a museum. And, above all that, I want to grow old with you, but I can’t have any of that, can I, so I’m going to learn how to bake a cake.” 

With a nod, Harry sniffled and took a bite of his cooling breakfast before washing it down with a sip of tea. He cleared his throat before picking up the list again, frowning when he saw he had reached the end. “That’s it?” 

Louis shrugged. “That’s all I could come up with. I’ll add to it if I think of anything else.” 

“Alright. I think you’ve had quite enough misadventures in the kitchen for the day, so we’d better skip the cake for now.” 

“My mother is going to the village tomorrow, if you write a list of everything she’ll need, she could buy it.” 

Harry agreed to write the list and went back to his breakfast, pushing his egg around his plate with his fork, his appetite gone. He was trying to come up with things he wanted to do with Louis before he left, but he realised how impossible the task was as he did so. He could not narrow down to a short list the contents of an entire lifetime of possible memories, no more than he could stop Louis from leaving. Trying to fill the hole before he was even gone was futile. Harry sighed at the realisation and Louis looked up from his breakfast to smile at him. 

“Where’s my mother?” 

“Gone with your father for a few hours. She left you under my supervision.” 

Harry snorted. “That’s why you nearly burned down my house?” 

“I had to get you out of bed, didn’t I?” Louis replied with a smirk, taking Harry’s hand in his and stroking his knuckles with his thumb. “What were your plans for the day?” 

“Reading, probably.” 

“How surprising! You’re an unpredictable boy, Styles.” 

Harry kicked Louis under the table, causing the older boy to laugh loudly, eyes crinkling.  “You’re not that funny, you know,” Harry told him, biting back a laugh. 

Louis made a face, sticking out his tongue before finishing his tea with a wince and a shudder. “Dreadful. I was thinking about setting up the nest for the summer, do you want to help me?” 

The nest, as their families had taken to call it, was a part of the Tomlinsons’ hayloft which, due to an architectural flaw – the story went that Louis’ grandfather and his brothers had been absolutely plastered while they were building it – had a ceiling too low to store bales. Louis and Harry had discovered it when they were 9 and 11, and had adopted it as their own little corner of solitude almost immediately. Over the years, they got more organised, shaping bales so they could be used as seats once blankets were thrown over them, bringing up empty milk crates to serve as tables and bookshelves, and Louis had spent a week repairing a battered oil lamp so they could use it and stay until late at night. Stashes of sweets and cookies were added in more recent years, just like the gas burner and the kettle Louis had bought when he was in Manchester. 

They could live there, Harry thought as he climbed up the steep ladder leading to the hayloft. He pushed on the heavy trap door, wincing when it fell open with a loud thud and caused a cloud of dust to rise from the rough wood floor. Harry coughed as he pushed himself up through the opening, looking back down at Louis and seeing his frown of concern. 

“It’s only dust. Pass me the crates.” 

It proved to be a difficult task, the height of the ceiling forcing Harry to bend almost completely out of the trap door so he could catch the crates Louis was holding up as high as he could. More than once, Harry felt himself slipping forward and had to let go of the crate to catch himself. 

“If you weren’t so short, we wouldn’t be having these problems,” Harry groaned as he struggled to lift the last crate, crammed with books. 

Louis gasped, putting a hand over his heart. “I beg your pardon? What did you just say?” 

“You heard me,” Harry replied, glancing down through the hole to smirk at Louis. “Come on up.” 

Louis climbed up nimbly, and then shut the door before slapping the back of Harry’s head. “I should just leave you here to do all the work by yourself.” 

Harry grinned. “I love you, too. Can you pass me the blankets?” No reply. “Lou? Louis?” Still nothing. Louis was working hard at pretending he could not hear Harry as he emptied the crates and overturned them to make tables. Rolling his eyes, Harry crawled towards the blankets, planting a kiss on Louis’ cheek at the same time, before going over to the bales they had used the year before, still placed where they left them. 

They worked in silence for a while, Harry humouring Louis’ sulking, but when he found a tin box behind one of the bales, he let out a happy cry. “Lou! I found sweets!” 

Louis’ answer was curt. “Great news.” 

Harry’s excitement died down when he opened the box and saw that the sweets had melted together to form a large lump of sugar. The cloying scent that came out of the box made Harry scrunch up his nose and he shut it again, pouting. “They’ve spoiled.” 

“That’s sad.” 

Harry sat on the bale that he had just covered with the blanket and put the box down on the floor, watching Louis with a frown. “Are you cross?” 

“I’m working.” 

“Come here.” Harry reached out to grab Louis’ hand and pulled him closer, forcing him to sit down next to him. “I’m sorry for teasing you about how short you are.” 

Louis crossed his arms over his chest and lifted an eyebrow. “You’re only making it worse, you know. 

“You’re not really cross, are you?” At Louis’ huff, Harry pouted. “I am terribly sorry that I offended you. And I’m sorry that you’re short.” 

Louis pounced, pushing Harry so that he was on his back and he was sitting on his thighs, holding him down with his hands on his shoulders. Harry beamed and Louis bent down, pressing his lips to Harry’s before pulling back when Harry put his hands on his waist. Louis grabbed them and pressed them down against the hay by Harry’s head, holding them in place by his wrists before kissing him again. 

“You’re a terrible person,” Louis said against Harry’s lips. Harry struggled against Louis’ grip on his wrists and Louis only tightened his hold. “I’m the rude one, you’re supposed to be the nice one.” 

“I think you’re a negative influence on me,” Harry said, his breath hitching mid-sentence when Louis’ lips travelled from his jaw to his neck, planting wet kisses down his throat. 

“Then you’ll be happy to know you’ll be rid of me, soon.” 

Harry tensed and struggled again to free his hands. This time, Louis let him and Harry sat up, pushing Louis off him without finesse. “Don’t you ever say that again.” 

Louis smiled, a sly glint in his eyes. "But you can't deny you'll be much quieter when I'm gone." 

"What are you playing at? This isn't a fun game. You're hurting me." Harry hated the hint of whining that coloured his voice, but Louis was crossing a line with whatever game he was playing. 

Harry was familiar with Louis' mind games; he usually liked them, liked knowing he was being taken for a ride. This one was cruel, though. Too cruel, even for Louis at his worst. 

"You know what I mean," Louis replied. "I'm everything that's disruptive in your life." 

"But you're not allowed to decide whether it bothers me or not. It's _mine_ and you can't take that away." Harry ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "Don't try to make me hate you so it's easier when you leave. I won't let you." 

Louis relented, his entire demeanor relaxing. "Sorry. You're right, I've gone too far. It's just… you look adorable when you're annoyed with me. I wanted to see you like that one last time.” 

Harry was ready to reply by telling Louis he was offended that he had been played like that, but his words caught in his throat. That Louis would want to commit to memory every aspect of him, every tiny detail of his personality was almost too much to bear, even more so because Harry had not thought about doing the same. He had to remember all of Louis too, the good and the bad. Especially the bad because his brain was bound to romanticise him once he started missing him too much and he had to remember that Louis was not perfect, which was exactly why he loved him as much as he did. 

The urgency of it all knocked Harry’s breath away and he moved in to hold Louis tightly, craning his neck to kiss his cheek, trying to commit to memory every detail of this moment: the way Louis’ breath ghosted over his skin, the solid warmth of his hands on his back, the cold, stale air of the barn sticking in his lungs. There were smells to remember, too; their sweat, and the dusty yellow scent of hay, and Harry wondered if he might ever smell hay again without associating it with the memory of Louis wrapped in his arms. The sounds were easier, limited to Louis’ steady breathing and that of the wind whistling through the rafters. Listening closely, Harry could hear the sounds of Louis’ sisters , the distance making it impossible for him to tell if they were upset or simply playing. 

“We should move,” Louis said at last, moving back and smoothing down his hair. “I promised my mother I would run some errands for her before dinner.” 

“Can I come along?” 

“Yes, of course. We’ll be walking though, my bicycle’s broken.” 

“I can walk.” 

“I know you can, I just… never mind. I’ll buy you a pastry from the bakery on our way out of the village.” 

Harry knew what Louis chose to keep silent, and he did not push. He was not looking for another argument, not so soon after the last. Being at odds had become the only thing they seemed to be able to be. 

*** 

Louis stretched and ran a hand through his hair. The sheet of paper laid on the desk in front of him seemed to taunt him, as though it knew Louis would not be able to write what he wanted on it. It was not fair, though, to make him feel like he was a failure because he struggled to write a farewell letter to the love of his life. What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say? Were there even words that could begin to describe how it felt to leave behind the best person you had ever known, one you knew you never even deserved in the first place? 

He should not have to write this letter. It was not fair that he had to leave, not fair that he had to go to war when he had never even punched anyone before. And about that, he had always made a point of staying a pacifist, of never getting into fights, and now he was expected to go and kill complete strangers over political matters that he, quite frankly, did not understand. 

Outside his window, the sky was darkening and a few stars had appeared, blinking faintly in the dying light. Rubbing at his eyes, Louis lit his lamp and lowered the flame so it did not blind him, and he turned to the sheet of paper once more. 

_My dearest Harry,_ he began, sighing loudly. Was it too pompous? 

He crumpled the piece of paper and threw it on the ground, reaching for another. 

_My love_ , he wrote and groaned, immediately sending it to join the previous one. Dearest was better, he decided. 

_My dearest Harry,_

_If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead._

A shiver rattled through Louis and he closed his eyes. He had to face it, that possibility. He could not risk disappearing and leaving Harry with only half of the story. He had to make sure Harry would know how loved he was in the event that Louis never came back. He would write another farewell letter, one that was less gloomy, but this one also had to be written, as much as it felt like ripping his heart out of his chest. 

_What can I even begin to tell you, if this is the last you’ll hear from me? Where do I even begin when I have built my life around you?_

Excellent _fucking_ question Tomlinson, he thought with a roll of his eyes, but he continued writing. Harry would appreciate whatever he got, if Louis left him permanently, even if it was only his thoughts on paper. That was his hope, at least. 

_I could start by saying how sorry I am that I abandoned you. I don’t know how I died, but I promise I won’t have gone down without a fight. It breaks my heart to know you’re now alone. It’s not fair._

Louis wiped his eyes angrily and put down his pen so he could get up and pace the room. He could not imagine Harry alone. The boy was helpless without Louis, in all honesty. He would disappear into his inner world, bury himself in books that would never take him anywhere, because his mother would scare him away from ever furthering his studies, because of his health that she did nothing to improve. 

Louis had offered to accompany Harry to see a specialist in Manchester. He could not believe that in 1916, nothing more could be done for Harry than knocking him out with drugs until his fit calmed down. Modern medicine had to have better offers. Anne had refused, saying Harry was too weak for the trip, acting as she always had, like he was a fragile baby bird that needed to be protected. 

Without Louis then, Harry would be stuck in this minuscule life he had carved for himself, a life that rarely extended past the edge of their lands. Two people would die, figuratively, if Louis died. All of his plans to take Harry to London with him, to move there and work so he could support the boy's studies - he was the brains between them, he had always been - would be smashed and Harry would probably wilt until he died in his mid-twenties of some nonsense excuse like _melancholia_ . 

Louis was working himself up into a useless anger, he had to calm down before he could no longer work on the letter. He knew he would never get back to it if he did not finish it that night. Going back to his desk, he turned on the light brighter, rubbed his face once more and picked up his pen. 

_Take care of—_

He stopped writing. Take care of whom? He was not sure who he meant. Harry himself, surely, but maybe a part of him wished, selfishly, that Harry might step in and replace him to take care of his mother and sisters, which was utter nonsense. His mother could take care of them, she did not need Harry to come in and try to be the man of the house, whatever that meant. It would insult everyone in the equation. 

Picking up his pen once more, Louis drew an X over the letter and wrote a big 'NO' on it. It was not good. He had to start again. Reaching for another sheet of paper, he stopped when he thought he heard a noise. Holding still, not even breathing, he waited, and a few seconds later he heard it again, louder. A smile grew on his face and he headed for his window, lifting it open and grinning down at the bright spot of light that was Harry holding up a lamp one floor below. 

Amused that Harry did not knock at the door like a normal person, feeling a rush of adrenaline at the thought of sneaking out, Louis bent out of the window and said, as loud as he dared, "Coming!" 

He shut the window and shrugged a jacket on before taking his shoes in his hands and carefully walking down the stairs. He made sure to avoid the creaking floorboards and took three times as long to shut the front door so it would not make a sound. Harry met him at the foot of the stairs of the porch, grinning from ear to ear in the light of what Louis could now see was a lantern. 

"Hi," Louis breathed out, stealing a kiss from Harry, making him laugh and smile even brighter. "Why are we sneaking around?" 

Harry shrugged. "I thought it'd be more fun if we made an adventure out of it." 

"Where are we going?" 

Taking Louis' hand in his cold one, Harry gently tugged him along. "You'll see." 

Louis had an idea of where they might be going early into the ten minute walk, but he kept quiet to play into Harry's plan to surprise him. The confirmation came to him when he heard the gurgle of a river rise up in the distance, and he smiled, letting Harry continue to tell him about the latest book he’d read, rather than tell him he had guessed. 

He only spoke once they reached the edge of it. "The river, dearest?" he asked. "Isn't it too cold for a swim?" 

"Of course, I'd get pneumonia in two minutes," Harry replied, laughing as he sat down on the grass. "But it's not too cold to look at the stars." Placing the lantern down on the ground, Harry patted the space next to him. "Come." 

Louis obeyed, sitting down by his side and pulling Harry against him with both arms around the boy. Half of the reason for the hug was so that Harry kept warm in the mild April night. 

"We need to lie down," Harry said with a chuckle, as he pushed against Louis' chest until they were both lying in the damp grass. 

Harry leaned up to place a small kiss to Louis' lips and then settled with his head on Louis' chest. Louis hoped he could not hear the way his heart thumped, his heartbeat so fast Louis wondered if it was trying to beat as many times as it could next to Harry's, before it could not do it anymore. A lifetime of shared heartbeats rushed into their last few days together. 

Gently, Louis began stroking Harry's hair, pillowing his head with his arm so he could look at the boy rather than the sky. 

"Look at that star, there," Harry said, pointing up suddenly and pulling Louis out of his reveries. 

"Which one?" 

"The one there, the brightest in the Plough," Harry continued. 

"Uh huh, I see it," Louis replied, lying. 

"That's our star. When you'll be…" Harry swallowed audibly, "When you'll be away, we can both look at it and know we're watching the same star at the same time." 

Louis' heart beat even harder. "Why not the moon? It's easier to see." 

"Everyone is looking at the moon, it wouldn't be special." 

Any words Louis might have wanted to reply died in his throat, too mundane to ever describe how he felt. "Deal," he said instead, pinching Harry's cheek teasingly. "Our star." 

How was Louis supposed to reduce everything he felt for Harry into a single letter, when the boy always found ways to sweep him off his feet? It was not fair. He would have to try harder in the dwindling days he had left before he became cannon fodder, however much it hurt. He owed it to Harry. 

*** 

Growing up sickly, Harry had always felt like time was against him, deliberately going slower than it did for everyone else, to spite him and make his life seem more tedious than it already was. Days stretched endlessly, hour after hour with nothing to fill them until he thought he would go mad; and yet, here it was, his old enemy, slipping through his fingers as the date of Louis’ enrollment approached. 

In Harry’s normal life, twelve days would have felt like half of an eternity, twelve more days in the never-ending stretch of days that formed his life. In this new, hellish life, though, the one where he was about to lose his best friend, twelve days went by in a blink. One moment, he was in his bed, listening to Louis telling him about how long they had left, and the next he was lying awake, staring at the ceiling, on the morning of his departure. 

He woke up while it was still dark outside and, for a few seconds, it was like a normal morning. He was about to roll on his side and go back to sleep when his memory flooded with what lay ahead, seeping through his veins like ice and paralysing him. That was how he lay, watching the pale sun rays travel across the slates of the ceiling as it rose, until he heard his mother’s quick steps and the floor creaking as she made her way downstairs to start on breakfast. 

Harry pulled himself out of bed and got dressed, unable to tell whether his shivers were from the cold air in the room or from dread. He joined his mother downstairs, glancing at the clock as he sat at the table. Just after six o’clock. Louis was expected to be at the train station by eight. Two hours left. 

Anne placed a plate in front of him and he thanked her, his words barely above a breath. She sat across from him as he tried to eat, and Harry knew she was looking at him without having to lift his head. He did not dare look up, unable to bear what he knew would be pain and empathy etched on his mother’s face. 

The eggs were too much for his state, their taste and texture making him gag. Instead, he reached for a slice of bread and ate it plain. It felt like one too many steps to butter it. He only managed to get through half of it before he felt his heart rise in his throat. 

“Is it okay if I…?” he breathed out, dropping the slice of bread on his plate. 

“Go,” his mother replied. 

Harry gave a jerky nod before he made his way out of the door. The sun was barely up, washing the colours out of the world. Harry walked carefully, the road still uneven because of spring rains, and he cursed at it for slowing him down. 

The kitchen window was illuminated at the Tomlinsons’ house, light dancing out through the lace curtains, as orange as the rising sun behind it. Harry knocked at the door before entering, his impatience too strong to wait for someone to welcome him in. He made his way to the kitchen, but stopped in the doorway when he did not see Louis in the room. Johannah pointed up towards the ceiling and Harry turned on his heels and headed upstairs. 

He stopped in front of the door to Louis’ bedroom. His hands were going numb from nerves and he shook them a few times before rubbing his face. He shifted his weight and the floorboards creaked. 

“Come in, Harry,” Louis said, a second later. 

Swallowing thickly, Harry walked into the room. Louis was sitting on his bed, the only light coming from the breaking dawn. He was wearing his army uniform, which looked grey in the darkness of the room, and had his rucksack by his feet. He sat motionless, his hands on his thighs, his gaze on the floor. When he raised his face to look at Harry, the grey light faintly streaming into the small room cast ghostly shadows on his face. The image scared Harry and made him look away. Louis let out a low, joyless laugh. 

“I can’t stand the sight of me in this uniform either,” he murmured. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the thick strands. “They’ll cut it off, you know.” 

“I know,” Harry replied, because he could not think of anything else to say. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” 

“My hands shook too much to light a match.” 

Silently, Harry went to Louis’ bedside table and lit the oil lamp before sitting next to him. He reached for Louis’ hand and squeezed it, and still, he could not find anything to say. Where would he even begin? How could any words ever be good enough when they could be the last they exchanged? What words could cross the chasm that grew bigger between them with every passing second? Already, overnight, a wall had been erected between them. Louis was being pulled away from him, immured by his fear, out of Harry’s reach. 

“I…” Harry began and he felt Louis’ hand tighten in his, their eyes meeting as Louis looked on eagerly, as though starved for Harry’s reassurance. He had none to offer and fell silent again. 

“I’m sorry that I’m acting odd, I barely slept,” Louis let out. 

“Neither did I,” Harry began, the rest spilling out of him before he could stop it, “And you’re allowed to be however the fuck you need to be right now.” 

A smile pulled at the corners of Louis’ mouth. “I’ll miss your temper.” 

“Please, miss more than the worst of me.” 

“The worst of you is the best of you.” 

The breath caught in Harry’s throat and he had to look down, settling on their entwined hands. The tears Harry had been fighting for hours – for days, really – welled up in his eyes. He sniffed and looked up at the ceiling to fight them. From the kitchen below, he could hear the clanking of dishes, the quiet hum of conversations. Louis’ room had always been suffocating because of its location, but Harry still found himself shivering as the minutes melted away. 

He would never find what to say. He had been trying to for the past twelve days, but nothing would ever be able to encompass the immensity of what he had to tell Louis. The sun was almost completely up, he saw, and that meant he was about to lose him, perhaps forever. How was he supposed to put an entire lifetime in a finite number of minutes? 

“Don’t forget about me, yeah?” Louis asked, breaking the silence and Harry’s heart in the same breath. 

“What are you talking about? How could I ever?” Harry’s voice shook. 

“If I don’t come back. I—I’m not saying…” Louis stammered, and he never stammered. Harry tightened his grip on his hand. “You should fall in love again, if I don’t come back. You deserve to be loved and cherished by someone who will see how precious you are, but… keep a little bit of room in your heart for me, please.” 

Hot, heavy tears rolled down Harry’s cheeks and he swallowed back a sob through his tight, painful throat. “How can you say that?” 

“I’m scared…” he sniffled and groaned, rubbing at his eyes angrily. “Fuck, I don’t want the last image you get of me to be cowardice.” 

“You’re not a coward. Don’t say that!” 

“Aren’t I? I should have enlisted months ago, fuck, I heard they gave ranks to those who did early. I’m 19, I could have been—should have been there for a year already, but I was too much of a bloody coward to go on my own. I had to wait until they ran out of fodder to go. Maybe if I’d gone the war would already be over!” Louis got up, letting go of Harry’s hand unceremoniously to pace around the room. “I mean, fuck! What if they come for you, next?!” 

Harry had not thought of that. He had a year to go before he was eighteen, but who knew if the conflict would be over by then. Would they care about his bad lungs, or would they only need bodies to try and slow down the Germans’ march through France? Harry could not even begin to think about that, about how he might be enlisted too, in a year. He had to close the door on those thoughts while he still had Louis in front of him. 

“You helped your family, and mine, and so many others by staying here. I don’t want to hear you say you’re a coward ever again!” Harry let out, his voice shaking with emotion. “You’ve done so much for everyone around you! What use would you be if you were dead? Hm? If you’d enlisted last year and gone off to the war and got yourself blown up, what would everyone here have done without you? Who would have fixed the Thompsons’ barn? Who would have helped the Walkers’ with their lands? What exactly do you reckon I’d have been doing, if you’d left?!” Harry’s voice cracked and he hid his face in his hands, bending forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

He swore he would not lose it in front of Louis. That promise did not last long. Time was ticking. Harry breathed in deep and gathered himself, putting the pieces back together haphazardly. 

“Don’t get mad at me,” Louis said, sighing. “I know you’re right, but… I don’t want a row before I leave.” 

Harry shook his head, closing his eyes for a second as a wave of pain washed over him, bringing nausea along. “No, no. No row. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say those things. Well… I meant them, but… I shouldn’t have shouted them.” 

Louis walked up to the window, looking away in the distance. Harry knew what he was looking for: a school friend of Louis’ had an uncle who owned a Model T and he had offered to pick up Louis and take him to the train station. In the previous days, Louis had been bursting with excitement at the thought of riding in a motor car. Harry had not had the heart to tell him it would steal several of the precious minutes they had left. 

“Are they—” 

“Not yet,” Louis replied, peeling his eyes away from the window. “I know that you’re right. I do. I’m just… enraged by my fear.” 

“I’d be worried about your sanity if you weren’t terrified.” 

Louis looked at him and nodded, pressing his lips together. “I don’t want to go.” 

Of all the things Louis said since he got the letter, these five words pained Harry the most. He got up and walked over to Louis, hugging him tightly as though hoping he might be able to shield Louis from everything. Louis melted against him and buried his face in his neck, and they stayed that way for a while, gently swaying as Harry stroked his back soothingly. 

“I’ll never forget you. I’ll never, _ever_ give up on you. I promise,” Harry whispered. 

The sun was fully up, its light almost blinding when Harry opened his eyes and pulled out of the hug. In the bright rays, Louis’ uniform took on its real colour, a khaki brown that dulled Louis’ blue eyes and made him look ill. 

Harry ran his hands down Louis’ arms, committing the sight of him to memory. “You look very handsome, my love. Like something out of a book.” 

Louis began to smile, but it faded when the sound of a motor car approaching reached them. They heard it at the same time, and Harry watched the life drain out of Louis’ eyes as he felt his blood turn cold. 

Without a word, they fell into the other’s arms and clung on. Louis was shaking and Harry held him tighter, gripping the rough wool of his uniform. 

“I love you,” Louis said, his words stumbling over each other in his rush. “I love you, I love you, I love you. Forever.” 

“I love you, too. I’ll never forget you, I promise. Write to me, don’t forget to write to me.” Harry’s thoughts were tumbling out of his mouth as they came, everything he had tried to say for days bursting out of him. “Please, come back alive. I’ll never forgive you if you die and leave me alone.” 

“I’ll try my best. I promise that I will.” 

Louis kissed him, and Harry felt his tears on his cheeks. They jumped when a loud honk broke the silence. 

“I have to say goodbye to my family…” Louis said, kissing Harry once more. 

Another honk, followed by a shout of ‘Tommo!’ Harry kissed Louis one last time. 

“Go. Go, before you can’t,” he said, feeling as though the words were being ripped out of him. “Before I can’t let you leave.” 

Never tearing his eyes from Harry, Louis stumbled towards his rucksack and shouldered it. He walked backwards out of the room. “You look so beautiful in that light,” he said, as though thinking out loud. "You’ve been the best part of my life, Harry.” 

And with that, Louis was gone, running down the stairs. Harry stood frozen as Louis’ words sunk in. He found a way to say adieu without saying it, without using the dreadful word and the finality it implied, but it didn’t hurt any less. Harry wavered and made his way to the bed, sitting down on it heavily. He could hear voices coming from downstairs as Louis said his goodbyes to his family, and then a few minutes later, the motor car’s engine starting and driving away. 

That was it. Louis was gone. It was all over. 

Harry felt numb. He had expected to cry, to scream and tear his hair out in pain, but now that it was done, all he felt was hollow. Without a sound, he laid on the bed and buried his head in Louis’ pillow, inhaling his scent, letting it fill his lungs and his memory. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes and he let them fall, let them soak the cotton. 

Soon, he would have to go downstairs, share inane, empty words with Johannah before he headed back home to resume his life. Imagining his future, it was like the colours had been drained out of them, everything painted in shades of grey, while his past had been bursting at the seams with bright hues. He would become one of those people who lived with one foot in the past, never quite there, their eyes sad even as they laughed. 

Soon, though. For the moment, Harry was content to pretend that he could stay where he was indefinitely. He was not brave enough, yet, to lift his head and see that Louis was gone. 

Soon. 

*** 

**January 1919**

Harry wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his coat as he fiddled with the keys in his hand. He shoved one in the lock and fought against the frozen mechanism to make it turn. He pushed the door open and hurried to the stove, kneeling and pulling on the heavy cast iron door to put a few logs in it. His hands shook as he did, clumsy with cold, and he coughed, sniffling and then coughing some more. At last, he managed to light up the stove and he straightened up and headed back to the counter. 

He had been working at the general store since May 1916. At first, it had been a way to keep busy, but when the owner’s sons were drafted and did not come back, Harry stayed on, taking on most of the daily operations to relieve the grieving family’s burden. He enjoyed the revenue too, and he thought that perhaps, someday, he might have enough to go back to school. He would like that, he thought. He would not mind getting away from the village, that was for sure. 

Harry carefully counted the till and wrote down the number in the ledger, and then checked the inventory quickly before he went and flipped the sign hanging in the window to say they were open—not that it made much difference. The village was poor before the war, and it was still poor now that the war was over. On most days, Harry was lucky to have two customers. 

It did not matter; he had a way to keep busy. Carefully, he removed a wooden box from under the counter. He had made it himself in school, in another life it felt like, and he had done such a poor job of it that his father had waited until he was in bed to fix it, making it sturdy enough to last through the years. 

He lifted the lid and took out a pile of letters tied together with a blue ribbon. He swallowed as he looked at them and bit his lip, a storm churning inside of him. After a moment, he sighed and closed his eyes in resignation before untying the bow and opening the first letter on the pile. It never did him any good to read these letters, but he rarely had the willpower to resist. 

_13th August 1918_

_My dearest H,_

_You won’t believe the book I found on my last visit to the village we’re in (you understand that I can’t tell you much more than that it is in France, and that I am closer to you than I have been in months). Here’s a hint, dearest:_

_‘Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently to me,_

_Whispering, I love you, before long I die,_

_I have travell’d a long way merely to look on you to touch you,_

_For I could not die till I once look’d on you,_

_For I fear’d I might afterward lose you._

_Now we have met, we have look’d, we are safe,_

_Return in peace to the ocean my love,_

_I too am part of that ocean, my love, we are not so much separated,_

_Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how perfect!_

_But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,_

_As for an hour carrying us diverse, yet cannot carry us diverse forever;_

_Be not impatient – a little space – know you I salute the air, the ocean and the land,_

_Every day at sundown for your dear sake, my love.’_

_Our dear friend Whitman! It was a battered old thing, the shopkeeper let me have it for free, he said it was the least he could do! I feel we are so much closer, now, my love, that we can read the same words despite the distance._

_I don’t have much time to read, though. Our days are busy and exhausting, and I don’t remember what it feels like to_ not _be covered in mud. And yet we don’t complain, because it could be worse. I am one of the older ones in my company, meaning that I’ve been here since ’16 and I’m still there. Some are older though, I met a bloke who enrolled as soon as the war was announced and he’s still there! So, see, do not lose hope of seeing me again. I will make it out alive._

_Something big will happen soon—what, I don’t know, but it’s chaotic here lately. I even met some Canadians, I had no idea the war had reached them. He told me they were a dominion but I didn’t know what it means and didn’t ask so I wouldn’t look stupid. Maybe you can look it up in one of your smart dictionaries and write it back to me? I should have listened more in school._

_I received your biscuits. They were crumbled and a bit dry, but I ate them anyway. I didn’t share. I know you said I should, but I didn’t. They were mine._

_I am happy to hear about Gemma’s baby, it really cheered me up for a few days thinking about a tiny new life. Good things still happen in the world._

_There’s a chance I could get furlough soon, or at least that’s the rumours I heard, that they might give furlough soon, so keep your fingers crossed for me, I would love to come home. They have to, they cancelled every other one I was supposed to have, it’d only be fair!!_

_We just got an order that we need to move so I will end my letter on this. Don’t worry about me, I will see you soon, and in the meantime, I keep you in my heart and my thoughts every second of the day, and I keep my eyes on our star every night so it can guide me back home to you soon._

_Your Louis, who loves you._

Harry wiped his eyes and put the letter down before his tears ruined it. Alongside the letter, Harry had slipped a newspaper clipping in the envelope. 

‘ _TOMLINSON – in loving memory of LOUIS WILLIAM TOMLINSON reported wounded and missing at the Somme, 16_ _th_ _August 1918, now reported killed in action on that date’_

Harry closed his eyes as the memories flooded his mind, making his heart ache. 

The news came on a sunny mid-September morning. Harry was riding his bicycle by the Tomlinsons’ house on his way to work when he heard Charlotte shouting his name. He slowed down and looked over, and he knew the moment he saw Johannah sitting on the front steps, bent over a letter, crumpled as though she had collapsed there and had not moved since. She looked up at Harry and he joined her, his legs filled with lead. 

_Missing in action_ , the letter said. They never found his body, but he never turned up anywhere, so they concluded he had died. The letter did not say it so plainly, but their meaning transpired through the carefully selected words. They didn’t list a location for his grave, because there would be none. They had no body to bury. That was that. 

Harry did not believe it. He would know if Louis was dead. He could not explain the feeling, could not explain his certainty that Louis lived, but as hard as he tried, he could not let it go. Louis was too resourceful, too full of life, to have died. Harry was not going to give up on him, and just accept that he had gone missing and that nothing more could be done. Louis deserved better. He would not have given up on Harry, if the roles had been reversed. 

So, he kept busy. For months now, he had been writing to hospitals in Picardy to know if they had any unidentified soldiers, perhaps too wounded to say who they were. His letters always stayed unanswered, but he kept going, he kept writing, because if he stopped, it would mean giving up on Louis. That was not an option. 

He had recently begun writing to hospitals in England, because perhaps they had at least been able to tell that Louis was English and had sent him home. It was also easier, because he could write in English instead of painstakingly translating what he wanted to say with the help of a dictionary. 

He made sure to put the store as the return address so his parents would not know what he was doing. They would disapprove and worry, perhaps not in that order, and Harry had worried them enough already without adding to their burden. It was his secret project, and it was better that way. 

Not that it mattered: he had never received an answer. 

Settling in for the day, Harry took out the list of addresses he had gathered and a pile of stationery, and he began writing. It was always the same format, although he tried to change the phrasing to keep it from becoming too tedious. He described Louis the best he could, which was not easy. He had to make sure he would not be confused for someone else, for any other men in their early twenties with brown hair and blue eyes. He gave details about his rank, about his regiment, and about where he had gone missing. He mentioned his family, in case Louis had talked about them. The letters were too long, a part of him knew and recognised that, but he felt like anything shorter would risk missing a detail that would be the key to find Louis. 

He was finishing his second one for the day when the door opened, letting in a gust of cold air. Harry hurriedly grabbed the wooden box and placed it on top of his papers before they flew away. 

Harry waved at the postman and got up to get the pile of letters he had for him. 

“Good morning,” Harry said. “It’s a cold one, eh?” 

“Cold, you say?” the man replied, laughing. 

“Feel free to warm up for a bit. I was about to put a kettle on, interested?” 

The postman, Mr Nesbit, had lost his three sons in the war. All of them Harry’s age, give or take a few years. Harry knew, when men like him looked at him, that they saw their dead sons, and the unfairness that Harry lived while their sons were dead. His bad lungs did not matter in the equation: in the end, Harry had, for many of them, committed a crime greater than could be described: he lived while their sons were dead. The guilt of knowing that, of assuming it from every person he saw in the village, pushed Harry to be as kind and generous as he could. It felt like a debt he had to pay, probably for the rest of his life, or until he could get away from the village. 

“No, thanks, but I have to get going, the missus isn’t feeling too good.” 

“Thank you for the letters,” Harry said as he walked the man back to the door. “Good luck in that cold.” 

“My luck’s run out, kid. See you,” he said before jogging down the steps of the front porch. 

Harry closed the door and sighed, shaking his head to clear his mind before he looked at the letters in his hand. As usual, they were addressed to the owner of the store and Harry would bring them over later in the day. Harry sifted through them quickly and he was about to put the pile aside when a letter in the middle of the pile caught his attention. It was addressed to him. 

Harry threw the letters on the counter and perched back on his stool, ripping the envelope open. The return address was a hospital in London. 

_January 5_ _th_ _, 1919_

_Dear Mr Styles,_

_We have received your letter inquiring about an unidentified soldier and we believe we have a man matching the description you sent._

Harry swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. His heart was hammering, but he had to stay calm. Even if they had a man with brown hair and blue eyes that matched Louis’ description, it did not mean it was Louis. 

_This man was sent to us from France at the end of 1918 with no identification and only a few personal belongings on him. We believe him to be the man you are looking for because one of our nurses – who offered to greet you, should you choose to come – said she had found a letter signed by a Charlotte and Félicité, and talking to a Louis, three names you mentioned in your letter to us. We believe it is not a coincidence, especially with the uncommon name_ Félicité _being present in both instances._

_Should you choose to come see for yourself, we would be—_

Harry dropped the letter on the counter and forced a deep inhale through his lungs. They had Louis. It had to be Louis, no one had a sister named _Félicité_ in England, except for Louis. Their lack of certainty was worrisome, though: did it mean Louis was too injured to talk, like he had feared? Harry had heard of men coming back from the front shell-shocked, too shaken by what they had seen and lived to get out of their heads. Was that what Louis was suffering from, what had kept him away for so long? 

Harry had to go see for himself, that part he was sure of. The letter ended with details on how and when to get to them and Harry hurriedly wrote a reply, saying he would be there on the date they had offered. 

The hard part came next: telling his mother that he had to go to London. He was 19, still a minor, but when most boys his age had gone to war and died for their country, the argument that he was too young to go to London alone would not stand. 

Still, he worried all day about how the scene would unfold, and by the time he got home, his shivers were more due to his nervousness than the cold. 

“Mum, may I have a word?” Harry asked, walking up to the stove to warm his hands. 

“You can even have more than one,” she replied with a laugh. She wiped her hands on her apron and smiled at him. “What is it?” 

“I... I need to go to London,” Harry said, swallowing thickly. “I think... I think I’ve found Louis.” 

Anne closed her eyes for a second and Harry braced himself for what would come next. 

“Harry, my love...” she sighed. “Louis is dead, you know that.” 

Harry shook his head. “He’s not. He’s _missing_ and _presumed dead_ . There’s this hospital in London who says they have a man with a letter from a Charlotte and a Félicité, talking to a Louis. What are the odds, Mum?” 

“If he’s alive, why hasn’t he told them where he lives so they could send him back?” 

“Maybe he’s shell-shocked, or too injured to speak! But I have to go see for myself and bring him home, I _have_ to, Mum!” Harry said, his voice rising. “If there’s even a chance that he’s still alive, I have to grasp it!” 

“Lower your voice,” his mother said in a breath, her gaze bouncing towards the stairs. “You know what your father thinks of... _this_ ,” she said, gesturing vaguely at Harry. 

Her words hit Harry like a punch. He ran a hand through his hair and breathed in a few times to steady his voice. 

“I have to go, Mum. Even if... it’s not him, I won’t be at peace if I don’t go.” 

“London’s not good for your lungs,” she replied, rubbing at her brow. “And it’ll be an expensive trip. You’ll have to stay at a hotel.” 

“I have money saved from my job,” Harry countered. “And the rest, I could ask Johannah for a contribution—” 

“You will do no such thing. You do not say a word of this to Johannah and her daughters. They’ve been through enough! You cannot get their hopes up like this, it would be incredibly cruel of you!” She clutched at the collar of her dress, shaking her head. “You hear me?” 

Harry nodded, shocked by his mother’s burst of passion. “I won’t, I promise.” 

She was silent for a moment, thinking. “My cousin Mary lives in London, I will call her tomorrow and see if she could take you in for a few days. We’ll tell your father that you’re off on an errand for your employer, understood?” 

Harry nodded again. He fought his instinct to give his mother a hug—her earlier words still stung. Instead, he thanked her and asked if he could help getting dinner ready. 

With the fear of his mother’s reaction gone, the sheer terror of what he would find in London had room to settle in, filling every corner of his mind, seeping through his veins like icy water. 

*** 

Harry arrived in London under a sky the colour of milk, through a cold that gripped his bones and hurt his lungs. He clutched his bag to his chest as he weaved through the crowd filling King’s Cross. It only took him a handful of steps before he was overwhelmed; having never left his village, Harry had already seen more people in a few minutes than he had in the first 18 years of his life. 

His mother’s cousin, Mary, was waiting for him near a newspaper stand, as she had said she would, and she greeted Harry with a curt nod. He had been warned that she was not an easy woman to be around, but it still filled his stomach with lead. It was an additional layer of anxiety that he did not need. 

Harry tried his best to keep up with her, but her brisk pace and the bustle out on the street was making it difficult for him to keep her in his sight, let alone stay close. 

“We’ll take a cab,” she said, stopping abruptly and causing Harry to collide with her. She clicked her tongue as he apologised. “I hate taking the Tube.” 

Harry nodded and held his bag tighter against himself, readjusting his hat in a nervous tic. He hurried to hold the door open for Mary before climbing in. He waited a beat for the motor car to start moving and then pressed his face to the window to take in the sights of the city. 

“Where are we going?” he asked without looking away. Every time he thought he had seen the most impressive thing in his life, the next second brought his attention to something better, or brighter, or taller. 

“Hampstead.” 

Harry hummed as though he knew what that meant. “And how close is it to Covent Garden?” 

“Acceptable. What hospital is it you’ve got to go?” 

“Endell Street Military Hospital,” Harry recited. He had committed the name to memory, engraved in his mind that which carried all of the hope in the world. 

“Oh, the suffragist one?” Mary asked, and the spark of interest in her voice made Harry look over. 

“I wouldn’t know that, I’m sorry.” 

“I’m telling you. Good women, there.” 

“I’m sure,” he replied. “They’re the only ones who replied to my letters.” 

She nodded and pursed her lips. “You can take the Tube to get there tomorrow. I will draw you a map.” 

“Thank you,” he said, weighing his words to make sure she knew how thankful he was. “And thank you for allowing me to stay.” 

“I wasn’t about to let family sleep in a hotel. Especially with your sickness.” 

It was Harry’s turn to purse his lips. The way she said it bristled his ego. “Still, thank you.” 

A heavy, uncomfortable silence settled around them and Harry returned his attention to the outside world so he would not give in and start rambling. He had a feeling he had won the woman over, however small the progress was, and he was not about to lose it all through his dismal conversation skills. 

Cousin Mary showed Harry to his room once they reached her small, two-story house. Harry had always thought his own house was small, but he realised he was blessed as he made his way up the narrow staircase, his shoulders almost touching the walls as he climbed the steep steps. He was escorted to a small bedroom, decorated for a child. The walls were painted white and the windows hung with curtains once made of white lace, now yellowed with time. The small wrought-iron bed was white and a pale yellow duvet was on it, trimmed with ribbons and bows. The rest of the furniture was scarce: a white dresser, a chest of toys, and a rocking chair on which sat a doll, the two of them white to match the rest. 

The room smelled like it hadn’t been opened in years, dust and humidity cloying in the air, but Harry said nothing. He knew she had lost her daughter before the war to smallpox and, however morbid the idea of sleeping in her room was, Harry was not going to comment. Windows could be opened to aerate and ghosts were best left alone. 

“Dinner will be in an hour,” she said. She walked to the door and lingered in the doorway for a moment. Harry thought he saw her shoulders slump for a second before she straightened her spine once more and closed the door. 

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, wincing when the springs cried in protest, and he sighed. He had hoped he might go to the hospital on the day of his arrival, but his mother had insisted he spread out his trip so he wouldn’t get too exhausted and have a fit. Considering how lucky he was to have been allowed to go, he forfeited and let his mother plan everything. 

The rest of the day passed by slowly, every second as sluggish as treacle, and the night brought Harry little comfort. The bed was hard and too short for him, and besides, how could he be expected to sleep when he might be reunited with Louis in a matter of hours? 

He did sleep, if only a few hours, yet he still felt like a shadow of a person when he made his way downstairs the next morning. He swallowed as much as he could of the breakfast he was offered before he left, the map Mary had drawn for him preciously stored in his pocket. 

Under different circumstances, Harry might have marvelled at the Tube, but between his fear that he might get lost, and his terror of what he might soon be forced to face, he barely registered that he was riding a train underground. There would be time for this later, perhaps with Louis by his side. 

He got off where he was told to and followed the directions to the hospital, down busy streets and into a maze of narrowing ones, sidestepping playing children and beggars at a brisk pace. He crossed a few men who had been soldiers, their faces carrying the scars of what they had survived, and Harry wondered if Louis would be a mirror of these broken men, or if he might have been spared. He had doubts that the outcome would be good. 

The maze gave way to his destination, a tall brick building identical to the ones around it. Harry checked that he had the right address and then he froze in front of the door, his heart hammering in his chest and cold dread seeping through his veins. He was not ready to face whatever awaited him inside. He doubted he ever would be. 

He might have stayed there forever, rooted in place and paralysed with fear, if the door had not opened. 

“May I help you, sir?” the young girl asked. She looked to be about Harry’s age, but her nurse uniform aged her, lending her a serious air that cowed Harry. 

“I, um… I sent a letter, a while back, and…” 

“Mr Styles?!” Her face brightened at once. “I was waiting for you! I’m the one who found your letter! Oh, we were waiting for you so eagerly! Come in!” Stepping out, she took Harry’s arm and hooked hers through it. 

“I hope I’m not too early…” he stammered out as he let her lead him inside. 

“Not at all! Come on, Louis is waiting for you.” 

Harry’s stomach sank. She’d pronounced it _Lewis_ . Louis never let anyone call him _Lewis_ . Either he had come for nothing and they had the wrong man, or Louis was too injured to correct people on his name. Either possibility made Harry want to run in the other direction. 

“What did Nurse Elizabeth write to you, about his case?” 

“Nothing,” Harry replied, his voice no more than a breath. 

The nurse nodded, squeezing Harry’s arm. “She wanted to tell you in person, then. We’ll go to her office right away.” 

Harry’s nerves turned to dread. 

He was escorted to the office in question and then the nurse – Emily, she said her name was – gave his arm a final squeeze before she left. Harry knocked at the door and entered when he was told to. 

Nurse Elizabeth looked up from her papers and smiled when she saw Harry. “You look exactly like your picture, Mr Styles. Come, sit,” she said, motioning at a chair in front of her desk. “Tea?” 

“Yes, please,” he replied, his voice shaking treacherously. He did not ask which picture she referred to. He was not brave enough to. 

She did not say another word until she asked how he liked his tea, and brought it to him. Harry watched her sit back behind her desk and then waited, holding his breath. 

“Allow me to be blunt, Mr Styles. Mr Tomlinson suffered many injuries at the Somme,” she began, pausing to take a sip of tea. “They’ve healed since, but… but his memory hasn’t.” 

The words made no sense to Harry. He blinked a few times and then frowned. “His memory?” 

“Mr Tomlinson is amnesic, Mr Styles. He has no recollection of anything that happened until he was brought here. We knew his name was Louis from the letter he had on him, and that was it until you wrote to us.” 

“ _Louis_ . He says it Louis, not Lewis,” Harry corrected; it was the only information he could comprehend at the moment. 

Amnesia. No memory of his life before the war. It did not make sense, it could not make sense. 

Nurse Elizabeth continued, unaware of Harry’s unravelling state of mind. “Your letter was a relief, I must say. We received a notice that we must end all activities and close our doors by the end of the year. He would have had to be relocated to an asylum, for lack of a better place for him.” 

“An a-asylum?” 

“A place where they keep people who have problems in their head,” she explained. 

“I know what an asylum is, I only wonder why he would be sent there,” Harry snapped in reply, insulted that she assumed he did not understand the word. 

“He can’t be left on his own, he doesn’t even know his name. Without a family to claim him, the state would have to take over.” 

“He was declared dead, that’s why no one claimed him!” 

She nodded, mollifying. “I know, I know. I inquired after his name when you wrote to us. Drink your tea,” she added. 

Harry obeyed, albeit begrudgingly. “When can I see him?” 

“In a moment.” She watched as Harry drank his tea, observing him like he was one of her patients. “It might be a shock to see him.” 

“Is he…” the word stayed stuck in Harry’s throat. He swallowed a sip of tea. “Is he disfigured?” 

“No, his wounds only left minimal scars and a slight limp. But you do understand that he won’t be the man you knew, without his memory?” Nurse Elizabeth asked, cautious. 

“His temperament won’t change…” 

“It might. You have to be prepared for it.” She pushed a tin of biscuits towards him. Harry ignored it. “He won’t know you, when he sees you.” 

“I know what amnesia means,” Harry muttered, rubbing at his eye. “But his memories might come back?” 

“They might, but there is no guarantee that they will, or that all of them will.” 

Harry grabbed a biscuit and shoved it in his mouth, using the excuse that he had to chew to let her words sink in. This was not what he had prepared for on his way to London. He was ready in case it was not Louis he had come to see. He was prepared for Louis to be disfigured, or shell-shocked into silence, or crippled, or missing limbs, but he had never thought that what he would have to grieve would be Louis’ memories. 

He might as well be going to see a stranger, if Louis did not know who he was. It meant that Louis would not know his family, his mother and siblings who had buried and mourned him. It hit Harry that it had been selfish to come here, to forget to think about how the Tomlinsons might react if Harry brought back half of their son. Who was Louis, without his memory? 

“Mr Styles?” Nurse Elizabeth asked, her concern etched on her face. “Are you all right?” 

“I… it’s a lot to… to think about.” 

“He is alive, still. Alive and whole, it’s a lot more than many others have had.” 

Harry nodded, running a hand through his hair. “I know, I know that. May… may I see him?” 

“Yes, he’s been told he would have a visitor today, he’s waiting for us.” 

She got up from behind her desk and Harry followed her, his breathing becoming shallower with every step. He felt the familiar tightness in his lungs begin to form and knew he was on the brink of a fit. He was thinking himself up to a fit; it had not happened since the first days of Louis’ time in the army. He did what the doctor told him to, he forced in deep, slow breaths, trying to stay as silent as he could so he would not alarm the nurse and cause a scene. He could do this. He could keep it together. 

“Mr Tomlinson is in this room,” the nurse said before opening the door. 

The room was longer than it was wide, big enough to be filled with what looked like a dozen beds, and dim from the heavy curtains drawn over the windows. It smelled of disinfectant and sickness. A little over half of the beds were occupied, some of the men reading, others sleeping or staring blankly at the ceiling. Harry searched for Louis, wishing his traits onto every face that he laid eyes on. 

He saw his eyes before anything else, meeting his from the second bed on the left from the door, staring back with curiosity, but no recognition. Harry gulped in a breath, willing his fit to subside. 

“Mr Tomlinson,” Nurse Elizabeth said, walking up to his bed and putting a hand on his shoulder, “Your visitor has arrived. This is Harry Styles. You are friends.” 

Harry could have screamed. _Friends_ . 

Breathe in, breathe out. 

“Hi Louis,” Harry stammered out, waving. He was rooted where he stood, unable to move closer. 

“Mr Styles,” Louis replied, forcing a polite smile on his face. 

Nurse Elizabeth walked up to the window nearest to Louis and pulled the curtains open. The sun came into the room in slanted rays and one of them landed on Louis, making fine strands of silver glisten in his hair. There was a scar on his forehead, running perpendicular between his hairline and his eyebrow. He had bags under his eyes, but he was clean-shaven and his hair had been kept short, cropped like a soldier’s. 

“You can call me Harry,” Harry croaked, swallowing around the knot in his throat. “We’re… we’re childhood friends, you and me.” He fiddled with the hat in his hands, wondering what would happen if he just ran out of the room without looking back. 

“Oh. I’m afraid I don’t…” Louis’ eyebrows furrowed in frustration, “I don’t know that. Not anymore. But…” he reached for the drawer of his bedside table, slow and careful. He took a small square of paper out of it and held it up. “This is your picture, is it not?” he asked, cocking his head to the side as he studied Harry. 

Harry wanted to move closer, but he felt naked and raw under Louis’ gaze. “It’s probably me, yes.” 

Louis—or rather, the stranger wearing Louis’ face, and speaking with Louis’ voice, turned sad. “Oh… we must have been close. I’m very sorry that I don’t remember you.” 

Harry walked up to the bed, standing by the foot of it and gripping the metal frame for support after placing his hat on the mattress. “We were. Like…” Harry closed his eyes, the words like a stab wound, “Like brothers.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice flat. “I was told I have a family?” 

“Um, yes… you have five sisters and a brother.” 

“And my parents?” 

“A mum.” 

Louis nodded. “I see. I have a letter from my sisters.” 

Harry gripped the bed tighter, until his knuckles turned white. “Charlotte and Félicité. The older ones. Then there are twins, Daisy and Phoebe, and another pair of twins, Doris and Ernest. Your mum is named Johannah.” 

“Am I going home to them?” Louis was asking the nurse, who nodded. 

“Yes, you are. You can leave with Mr Styles, if you wish.” 

“His family doesn’t know I’m here,” Harry blurted out as panic seized him. “I wasn’t sure… I didn’t want to give them false hope.” 

Nurse Elizabeth pursed her lips for a moment and Harry knew she was annoyed at him. “I will call them.” 

Harry shook his head. “They don’t have a telephone.” 

She sighed. “What do you propose, then?” 

Louis spoke up before Harry could. “Mr Styles, you could go back to, um… where are we from?” 

For a second, Harry had been glad that Louis spoke up, but he delivered a blow that struck Harry straight to his heart. “Yorkshire.” 

“So,” Louis continued, oblivious. “Mr Styles can go back to Yorkshire to deliver the news that I am alive and well, and he can write back with arrangements for my return. Does that sound reasonable?” 

Harry nodded. “I could probably get on a train tonight,” he let out, his voice raspy with emotions he struggled to repress. “And I could call with… with arrangements,” he continued, “There’s a telephone where I work.” 

Nurse Elizabeth seemed satisfied. “That will do. Do you wish to spend time with Mr Tomlinson before you go?” 

Harry looked at Louis, at the placid calmness of his face, and he felt a surge of nausea rise in his throat. He looked away like a spasm and shook his head. “No. If I hurry I could be back in Yorkshire for dinner.” He grabbed his hat. “You’re found, now. I’ll bring you back amongst the living. I promise, _Mr Tomlinson_ ,” Harry continued, spitting out the formality like venom, infusing it with the hurt he felt. 

Nurse Elizabeth followed him out of the ward and into the hallway. “Mr Styles, you must—” 

“I know, _I know_ ,” he snapped, before sighing and running a hand down his face. “But it’s only him physically. My—” he shook his head, “The Louis I know isn’t in there. It’s a stranger wearing his face. 

She sighed and nodded. “I understand your distress. I won’t hold you back any longer, I’ll let you get on your way. We’ll wait for your call.” 

“Thank you, for everything. For… for taking care of him.” 

“Of course,” she replied, squeezing his bicep briefly before she left him where he stood. 

Harry was grateful for her discretion and he took a few minutes to regain his composure before he headed out. 

*** 

A soft, barely there snow was falling as Harry sat in the Tomlinsons’ kitchen, the delicate snowflakes dancing in the wind, swirling, rising and falling. Despite the warm cup of tea clutched in his hands, Harry felt cold to his bones, and every word that he pried out of his mouth hurt like a dagger to the heart. He held back his tears, not wanting to upstage Louis’ family with his grief, and eager to hide that they were in part caused by his frustration that they were not more upset about Louis’ memory loss. 

Was it selfish that he cared more if Louis could remember him? It probably was, and yet it still clung to his heart, gripping it like a vice, clouding his mind. It made no sense; Louis had more value to him than the feelings he had for Harry, he had been his friend before he was his lover, and _of course_ Harry was glad that he was alive, glad he had found him, but it still felt like he had been asked to mourn his lover twice and it wasn’t fair. 

What also felt deeply unfair was that Johannah said she would travel to London to get Louis herself, turning down Harry’s offer with a pat to his arm and a reassurance that he had already done so much for them. 

Harry left the house not long after that, but he could not face going back home. He was still too fragile, he had to build himself back up before he could face his mother. He headed out towards the woods at the edge of the Tomlinsons’ land, the dead grass creaking under his feet. The snowflakes, swirling more than they fell, covered the sleeves of his coat for a few ephemeral seconds before they melted. It was like walking through icing sugar and, inspired, Harry decided that he would bake Louis’ favourite biscuits for his return. Perhaps it might work on his memory to eat something he had always loved. 

Focusing on the recipe, making a list of everything he would have to get from his work the next day, helped soothe his mind and by the time he made it back home, his toes frozen stiff and his nose runny, he felt solid enough to tell his mother that he would not have to go back to London, after all. His voice did not waver once, and he congratulated himself for the success. 

*** 

It was a whole week before Johannah made the trip. A week of hand wringing and insomnia, of walking half in a dream, never quite there, lost in his thoughts and his worries. Harry made the biscuits the night Johannah and Louis were due to leave London, and stored them in a jar that he carefully decorated with a ribbon and promptly hid from his father. 

Harry took the jar to work the next day. Johannah had promised she would stop by the shop on her way back through the village. Harry had wanted to see Louis again on neutral territory. He did not think he would be able to stand seeing him in his house, amongst his family, knowing Louis had no idea who they were. 

Their train was to arrive around two o’clock. Harry spent the morning fretting over their arrival, worrying that he had been too rude with Louis in London and that he would not want to see him again, or that it would hurt too much to see him and Harry would humiliate himself by crying in public. 

It was nearly four o’clock when Harry saw two silhouettes making their way towards the shop in the quickly falling dusk. He held his breath, his heart hammering in his chest, deafening, and only exhaled when the door opened. He plastered a smile on his face and walked out from behind the counter. 

“Hi, come in, come in,” he fussed, closing the door and shivering at the gust of wind that came in with them. “I’ll put the kettle on,” he continued, never once looking at Louis as he hurried towards the stove. “You must be weary from the train.” 

“Thank you, Harry,” Johannah said. “We were delayed, it was a nightmare. I won’t say no to a cup of tea. Louis?” 

Harry held his breath, bracing for the sound of Louis’ voice to stab him in the heart. 

“Yes, thank you, Mr Styles.” 

“ _Harry_ ,” Harry snapped, his voice hardening against his will. “You call me Harry.” He paused, breathing in deeply. “Sit down, sit down,” he motioned to the two chairs he had pulled near the stove, “Warm up.” 

“Thank you, love,” Johannah said. “It’s been… things can only get better from now on.” 

“Yes…” Louis breathed out. “They ought to.” 

“You’re alive,” Harry said. 

“Against all odds, yes,” Louis replied. “It’s got to be worth something.” 

“It’s _everything_ .” 

“I agree with Harry,” Johannah added. “You’re alive and back with us. It will get better, and easier. There’s a life for you outside of that dreadful war.” 

The silence that followed the stilted conversation was heavy and made Harry fidget with the tea cups, spilling half of the teaspoon of tea leaves he was trying to put in the pot. He swiftly swept the leaves to the floor and tried again, hurrying to the kettle when it whistled, cutting through the tension that had thickened like treacle. 

“I have biscuits, too,” Harry said as he brought his guests their cups. “I made them last night.” 

He carried the jar over and handed it to Louis, shoving it in his face in his hurry. “To welcome you back,” he explained. 

Louis offered him a smile, one miles away from the sparkle of his real one. Harry returned it in kind before sitting down heavily. 

He took his first real look at Louis since the day at the hospital and he sighed. He looked worse than he had, even thinner than a week before, it seemed. _Gaunt_ , he would say if he did not dread the word and the weight it carried. 

Harry watched as Louis reached in the jar and tested a biscuit. Another smile appeared on his face after his first bite, this time more sincere. 

“These are really good, Harry, thank you.” He paused for a moment, long enough to take another bite. “Were… you made these because they were my favourite, I suppose?” 

All Harry could do was nod. 

“I can imagine that they were, yes. I could eat the whole jar.” 

“You should,” Harry blurted out. “You’re skin and bones.” He winced, closed his eyes. “Sorry.” 

Louis laughed, a hollow sound that ripped Harry’s soul to pieces. “I know. I was ill before Johannah arrived. A stomach bug took over the ward, it wasn’t pretty.” 

Harry knew without looking at Johannah that it hurt her to hear Louis use her name instead of calling her his mother. Briefly, Harry patted her arm. If anyone in the world understood the pain he was going through, it was her. 

“Between your mother and I, we’ll fatten you up.” 

Louis cocked his head. “It’s kind of you to offer, but you don’t have to go through that trouble.” 

“Harry is a better cook than me,” Johannah rushed to say, casting a worried look towards Harry. 

His teacup was clicking against the saucer under the tremors of his hands. He placed them down on the counter and shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning against the counter for support. 

“I won’t insist,” Harry said, forcing his voice to sound nonchalant. “I’m busy enough with the shop as it is.” 

“You’ve already done more than necessary for me, is all,” Louis said. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You’ll see, the Styles are like family and family is never a burden, hm?” Johannah patted Louis’ thigh. “We better be on our way, your sisters are dying to see you. Thank you for the tea and the biscuits, darling,” she told Harry. “Will you come over for dinner tomorrow?” 

Harry shrugged, hoping she would be able to tell his distress without requiring explanation. 

“The invitation stands, whatever you decide, all right? Take care, love.” Johannah hugged him tightly, and whispered, “Please come. It’s unbearable.” 

Harry closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes. I will come.” 

She let go and thanked him before herding Louis out. Harry watched them leave and sighed, fighting back tears. He was so sick of crying. 

*** 

After a fitful night and a day spent wringing his hands with dread, Harry made his way to the Tomlinsons’ house around four in the afternoon, bracing himself for an evening filled with more of the same unbearable tension. 

He had barely knocked at the door that it swung open, revealing a smiling Louis. “Hi. I was hoping you’d be early. Come in.” 

Harry frowned and walked in, stunned by Louis’ enthusiasm. “Where’s your family?” he asked as he looked around the deserted house. 

“Out. They went for a walk to get away from me for a while.” 

“Don’t—” 

Louis shook his head. “I know that it’s the reason why. It’s all right. It’s not easy for me, either. But I’m glad you’re here. Come.” 

Wrapping his hand around Harry’s arm, he dragged him upstairs and to his bedroom. Harry held his breath as he came in; he had not been there since the morning of Louis’ departure for the war. Why would he be taking Harry – a stranger – up to his bedroom? The hope that his memory was back crossed his mind; his heartbeat quickened. 

“Sit down,” Louis told him and Harry obeyed, perching on the edge of his bed. “I had questions for you.” 

“I’m listening,” Harry replied, his dread returning. Of course, Louis’ memory was not back. 

“No, no. You didn’t listen. I _had_ questions. I didn’t understand why you were the way you were when we met. It felt like I was missing a piece of the puzzle.” 

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Louis cut him off. 

“Let me finish. I could tell it hurt you to see me, but I didn’t understand why. I didn’t understand who you were to me.” Louis paused to look at Harry. “You’ve gone pale. It means I’m right.” 

“It’s nothing,” Harry breathed out, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“But I did worry about it. All night. Because maybe you were uneasy at the hospital, but the way you were last night wasn’t normal.” 

“Maybe it’s my personality,” Harry countered, shrugging. His heart was deafening in his ears. 

“No, no it’s not. I could feel the tension in the air too, you know. I have amnesia, but I still know how social situations work. So I wondered, maybe you’re someone who was very important to me that I forgot. It kept me awake, trying to figure out what you could be. In the middle of the night, I got up to find a piece of paper to write down the questions I had for you and I found this.” 

Louis walked over to his desk and opened a drawer, picking up a piece of paper from it and bringing it to Harry. Shaking, Harry looked down. 

Half of the page was covered with Louis’ handwriting. He let his eyes glide over the words, refusing to read them. What Harry noticed first, though, was the X that had been drawn over the text and the ‘NO’ written in big letters underneath it. 

“What is it?” Harry asked, looking up. 

“Read it.” 

_My dearest Harry_ , it began and Harry nearly dropped the sheet. He swallowed thickly. 

_My dearest Harry,_

_If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. What can I even begin to tell you, if this is the last you’ll hear from me? Where do I even begin when I have built my life around you?_

_I could start by saying how sorry I am that I abandoned you. I don’t know how I died, but I promise I won’t have gone down without a fight. It breaks my heart to know you’re now alone. It’s not fair._

_Take care of_

The letter stopped there. Harry stared at the page, unable to look up. He could feel Louis’ gaze on him, heavy and paralysing. 

“Did I… is there a version that I finished and gave you?” Louis asked, breaking the silence at last. 

“No.” 

“And, um… does it make sense, that I wrote this?” 

Harry folded it so the words would disappear from his sight. It also gave him an excuse not to look up at Louis. “It does, yes. I was angry that you didn’t, actually. When we thought you were dead.” 

“I still have questions.” Louis sat next to Harry, leaving a foot of space between them. “We’re not related, are we?” 

“No. Our fathers were friends from childhood because they were neighbours, and our mothers became friends when they married our fathers and moved here. We were raised together, like brothers.” 

Louis nodded, drinking in the words. “Like brothers. It makes sense. You said we were close, at the hospital.” 

“Inseparable, some might say.” Harry flattened the letter on his thighs, staring at his hands, never looking up. He saw the opportunity to tell the truth, to confess that they were in love, but he decided to shut that door. Their love had been a miracle the first time it happened, he held very little hope that it would happen a second time. He did not want to put that burden on Louis. 

“Best friends, then. So you knew my life inside and out, yeah? Like how I said in the letter that I built my life around you. You can help fill in the blanks of my memory.” 

Harry nodded, swallowing. He could feel his hope deflating. “Ask me anything.” 

“Am I married?” 

With a huff, Harry shook his head. “No. You’re not engaged either. There are no girls waiting for you.” 

“Right, I didn’t feel like I was. It’ll sound silly, but I feel like… if I’d been in love, I would still feel the pull of it, even if I don’t remember the details. Do you believe that’s possible? That love can be stronger than anything?” 

“No,” Harry snapped. "That’s stupid. Love is built on memories and how the person makes you feel, and the things you’ve built together. It’s not some… some disembodied concept.” He looked up and was met with the hurt etched on Louis’ face. “Sorry, it’s just… it makes no sense and I don’t want you to start believing things that don’t exist.” 

Louis was silent for a moment. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you have a really good vocabulary. I’d never heard anyone say ‘disembodied concept’ with such ease.” 

“I read a lot,” Harry replied, ice wrapped around his words at what Louis was implying. 

Louis audibly swallowed. “Can I borrow books, sometimes? I don’t have many here.” 

“You never liked to read. But yes, come over some day and you can borrow as many as you want.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You preferred being outside,” Harry continued, unwilling to let another uncomfortable silence settle between them. “You helped a lot of our neighbours with their fields after their sons first left for the front. Before you were drafted.” 

“I was drafted, then.” 

“You didn’t go willingly. With your father gone, you wanted to stay for your family.” 

“How?” Louis asked, leaning forward. “How did he die? My mother did not say.” 

Harry pressed his lips together, swallowed. “Consumption, um,” he shook his head, “Tuberculosis, I mean.” 

“Oh.” 

“You were 14, it wasn’t long after the twins were born. You dropped out of school when he fell ill.” 

Harry kept quiet that for years after his death, Louis had to leave the room whenever Harry started coughing. He did not need to know the scars it left, not if he had forgotten them in a twisted turn of fate. 

Louis got up and walked to the window. “And I left them all for the war, and they thought I had died too.” 

“You didn’t have a choice.” 

“You didn’t go.” He turned to look at Harry, the weight of his accusing stare making Harry flinch even if he was used to receive it from everyone finding out he had not gone to the front. 

“I’m younger. I was 16 when they called you.” 

Louis paused and Harry could tell he was making calculations in his mind. “You were 18 before the war ended,” he finally replied. 

“Yes, but unfit for combat. I have bad lungs. Asthma.” 

“I suppose I should say you’re lucky, but I don’t remember the war.” 

“You’re the lucky one, then. Amnesia can’t be all bad…” Harry risked a joke, holding his breath that it would be well-received. 

Louis chuckled. “It can’t, can it?” 

The first hint of an uncomfortable silence began spreading between them once more and Harry raked his mind for something to say to fill it. He was saved by voices coming from downstairs, calling that they were back. They exchanged a look of undisguised relief that hurt Harry – how unfair that they now felt relief when their time alone ended – and headed downstairs. 

Harry got to work helping Johannah prepare dinner, giving Louis the task of peeling potatoes to keep him busy while his siblings tried to avoid interacting with him. Charlotte spoke up after a moment. 

“Oh, Harry! Have you got any new gossip for us?” she asked, her voice dripping with fake enthusiasm. 

“Gossip?” Louis looked up from his work. 

“I work in town, I hear everyone’s stories,” Harry explained before starting the latest tale of the doctor’s many infidelities, adding as many details as he could to liven up the mood. 

His efforts were rewarded when Louis smiled at him. It was a real smile, going up to his eyes, crinkling them and, briefly, erasing the scars on his face. 

“How scandalous,” Louis said. “You must tell me the other chapters of the story.” 

“Sure,” Harry replied, turning back to the pot he was stirring. “Whenever you want. You told them better, though,” he couldn’t help but add, wincing as he did. 

Next to him, Johannah clicked her tongue and whispered his name in a scold. 

“Oh, well now I get to learn them all over again, it’ll be fun,” Louis quipped. “Everyone can breathe out, Harry didn’t offend me. We can talk about my amnesia. It’s not a secret to me, no one’s telling me anything new when they point out that I forgot a thing I used to do or know. I’m not sure what it’s like to be Louis Tomlinson and I won’t fucking learn if everyone tiptoes around the issue.” He was silent for a beat, then, “Sorry for swearing around the children.” 

“You’ve said worse in front of them when they were even younger,” Harry immediately added, holding Louis up to his request. “You have a dirty mouth.” 

“I washed it with soap many times,” Johannah continued. “It never worked.” 

“Well, I’ll try my best to hold them in. Maybe this new version of me can try and be better.” 

“There was nothing wrong with the previous one,” Harry muttered, clearing his throat. “Potatoes, sir,” he said louder, pointing his wooden spoon at Louis. “Hurry.” 

Louis winked at Harry and resumed his work, unaware that he had just broken Harry’s heart all over again with a simple gesture. 

The meal was not easier than the preparation had been. While his talk with Louis had helped Harry calm down - if only slightly - around him, his family was still walking on eggshells. Harry could not blame them; he did not have to live with a stranger, like they did. He caught Louis looking at him a few times throughout the next few hours and every time, Harry looked away, unable to share in whatever Louis was trying to communicate. 

"Let me walk you home," Louis offered after Harry said he should get going. He put down the dish rag he was using to dry a pot, having insisted that he clean up after everyone fed him. 

Harry swallowed. He was not ready for another moment alone with Louis, not so soon. "You don't have to, I know the way." 

"You'd be doing me a favour, I need fresh air." 

At a loss for an argument to keep Louis away, Harry nodded and shrugged on his coat, wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck. Louis followed him outside, smiling when their eyes met. Harry looked away, burying his hands deep inside of his pockets. 

"It's a gorgeous night," Louis commented after a while in silence. "The air, I didn't know it could feel this sharp and refreshing," he continued. "Since, you know. All my memories began in military hospitals. They'd take us on walks when we were healthy enough to go and I remember thinking how…" he frowned, looking for the right word, "stale the air felt." 

"I'm not usually allowed to go to London, because of the air. And my lungs," Harry sighed, hating the stilted way his words came out. "My mother gave me a special permission to go find you." 

Louis let out a loud breath. "Bless her. Hey, I have a question." 

"I'm listening." Harry glanced at Louis and saw him looking up at the sky. It was a clear night, without a cloud in sight, and the stars twinkled. It was almost dizzying. Harry cast a longing glance at their star, wondering if Louis knew, on instinct, to look at it, too. 

"It's winter now, so it's not urgent, but how are our lands managed? You're sick and an only child, and I'm the only man." 

A small cloud floated in front of Harry as he huffed a sigh of relief. He had worried Louis would try to get emotional once more. 

"I'm not an only child, I have an older sister, Gemma. She's married and living in Manchester. But, um… your mother actually sold most of your lands when you were… when you were dead." Harry swallowed. "She kept enough to grow what your family might need, a small vegetable patch, but the rest she sold. She works as a seamstress now, didn't you notice?" 

Louis frowned. "I assumed she liked sewing." 

"Well, no. She gets help from the older girls. My family, on the other hand, my father rents part of our lands. He's not willing to sell it just yet, but we can't… I'll never be of any use to him and he's getting old. You'll see them come in a few months. Some are from the village, but others come from elsewhere. They camp all summer and sell what they harvest for profit. We get a part of it in return." Harry shrugged. "He hates it, my father, but he has no trade if he chooses to sell. I make a bit of money at the store and I help, but I keep part of it to myself." 

"This is the most I've ever heard you talk." 

Harry felt his cheeks reddening and he hunched his shoulders, trying to hide in his scarf. "Oh." 

With a small laugh, Louis continued. "What are you saving money for?" 

They turned onto an iced over part of the path and Harry stayed silent as they carefully made their way across it, grateful for the time it gave him to ponder his reply. Once they were back on safer ground, he shrugged once more. 

"I'd like to continue my studies." 

Louis clapped his hands, disturbing the stillness of the night. Harry flinched with surprise. "I could have guessed." 

"How?" 

"A hunch." 

Harry hesitated before he spoke, running his fingers over the rough wood of the fence they were walking past. "It's something you knew, before. Maybe…" 

Louis was quiet for a moment. "Maybe, yeah. But probably not." 

"Yeah," was all Harry could reply. 

Grateful to see his house coming into view, Harry sped up his steps, feeling like he had said something he should not have said. "This is my house." He pointed at it. 

"I see," Louis replied. "We don't live too far apart." 

Harry shook his head. "Indeed. Will you find the way back?" 

"It's almost a straight line, I should be fine." 

"Hm, right." 

There was a pause as they neared the porch. Harry climbed it, unsure if the moment was over and he could go inside. He looked back at Louis, waiting. Inside his pockets, his fingers were curling and uncurling spasmodically. 

"Do you work tomorrow?" When Harry nodded, he continued. "I might come visit you. I have a letter to send. You sell stamps?" 

Again Harry nodded. He did not say that the post office had them, too. "What's the letter? If I may ask?" 

"You may," Louis replied, warm and encouraging. Harry could tell he wanted to talk about it to someone. "I have to come back to life." 

"Wha—oh! Oh, that sounds complex." 

"I'll be honest, I don't even know where to begin. I'm writing to the Army to see if they can help. Nurse Elizabeth gave me the address before I left. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Thank you for the lovely evening." Louis reached up and touched the sleeve of Harry's coat. "Have a good night." 

"You, too," Harry let out, barely loud enough to be heard. 

He watched as Louis walked away, quickly disappearing in the darkness beyond the reach of the porch lantern. Only when he could no longer hear his steps did Harry let out a long, pained sigh and head inside, a storm raging in his heart. 

*** 

The sky was still dark, a hint of sunrise barely coming up on the horizon, when Harry left his house to get to work. The walk to the village took a while, and he had to be there early enough for the first train of the day, the incoming and outbound passengers making up most of the customers he would see all day. 

As he passed by the Tomlinsons' house, the warm orange glow of a lamp caught his eye and he turned to look. He had trained the habit out of himself, over several months, so that he would stop longingly look at the house while Louis was gone. It felt like a betrayal to do so, but there was a lamp on, uncharacteristically early for a winter morning. He slowed down and peered down the lane leading up to their porch, and he was about to walk on when he thought he detected movement in the receding darkness. 

"Harry?" he heard Louis' voice calling. The disembodied call, in a voice only recently brought back from the dead, made Harry shiver. It had been a week since they last spoke, Louis had not come to Harry's workplace like he said he would. 

"Louis?" he called back, stopping for good. "What are you doing up?" 

Louis jogged down the lane up to him and smiled. "I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd go to work with you, like I said I would." 

"It's five in the morning," Harry countered, frowning. "How did you know I go to work this early?" 

Louis shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets as he started walking towards the village. Harry hurried to follow him, careful not to slip on the icy mud. 

"I don't really sleep. Nightmares, you see. Memories, I suppose, but… nightmares." Louis trailed off with a huff, a cloud forming in front of him. "So I see you walk by every morning." 

"You dream about the war?" 

Louis let out another sigh and Harry regretted his question. "I don't know if it's the war, it's more a feeling. It's fear. I'm afraid in my dreams, it's usually the only thing I can remember when I wake up." He shook his head. "It'll pass, there isn't much to be afraid of around here, unless someone's frightened by cows." 

"I'm not entirely comfortable around them," Harry replied, testing to see if Louis would take him seriously. 

Louis let out a laugh. "I wouldn't brag about it if I were you." 

"I had an incident with one, as a child. It was… it was ghastly," Harry continued with the joke, trying to sound dramatic so Louis would be led on. "It's a good thing you don't remember. I was never the same after." 

There was a pause during which Louis studied him, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. "You're making this up, aren't you?" 

Harry cracked up. "Yes, of course I am!" 

Louis laughed even more. "How cruel! How cruel to make fun of a… a crippled man!" 

"I'm crippled too. I'm allowed." Harry kept his tone light, but he was worried that he might be pushing the limits of what Louis was willing to take in good faith. 

It was the first time he felt comfortable enough around Louis to be light, to make jokes and tease like he might have before the war, and he was afraid that he would cross a boundary and lose him all over again. He had no idea how to be a friend to Louis; all he knew, all he had ever known, was how to be Louis' other half. He never had to worry about going too far before because 'too far' just did not exist. He knew, instinctually, what Louis would and would not tolerate. This new Louis, though, this new man who was trying to fill in the Louis-shaped hole in the world, might have sore spots or topics he did not want to be teased about. 

"The asthmatic and the amnesiac, they should write a novel about us," Louis replied, shaking his head. 

"More like a slapstick skit." 

"Something like, I'd get lost because I don't have my memory anymore and you run to try and help me and choke halfway there." He hummed in frustration, "Yeah, that's not really funny, is it?" 

"Charlie Chaplin would make it funny, I think." 

"Who's that, a friend of yours?" 

Harry swallowed back his laugh of disbelief a second before it burst out of him, and he took a second to phrase his reply. "I wish he were, but no, he's a movie actor. We went to see one of his movies a few months before you left for the war. You remember what movies are?" 

"Yes. Was it a good movie?" 

"Yes, it was funny." Harry paused and frowned. "Did your doctor explain why you remember… words and things, but not who you are?" 

Louis shook his head. "He says he's seen it a lot in people with head injuries, but that there isn't enough research to really understand why." 

"I see… I asked because you knew what a movie is, but not that you'd seen a Charlie Chaplin one." 

"And I know how to get dressed, how to talk and walk and take care of myself, and I know how to talk to people and how to behave and all that, but I don't know who anyone is or who I am. It's frustrating." Louis gulped, his tone rising as he got emotional. "What use it is for me to remember what a bloody spoon is if I don't even know who I am?! Or who my family is, it's… I can't pick my own mother out in a crowd, but I can do arithmetic." 

"I can't even begin to imagine…" Harry began, but Louis interrupted him. 

"It's not easier for any of you, I know that. You expect me to be the person I was before and I'm not, I'll never be, and I let everyone down. I see it in their eyes, no need to lie to me, Harry, I see it in yours, too. There's something… missing, for you. You're distant." 

"Maybe it's just that we were never close to begin with," Harry tried, sounding fake even to his ears. 

"Hey, what's with the memory problems, that's my thing. We looked at a letter together last week, didn't we? That sounded close to me." Louis was rough, frustrated more than angry. "You're not telling me something, and that's fine, I respect your… your secret garden, but I know it's there. I want you to know that." Louis sighed, shaking his head. "Why did 'secret garden'… it… it was something for me. That phrase. I felt it." 

"It's a novel we used to play pretend about," Harry rushed to reply. "I have it. I'll lend it to you." 

Louis nodded, silent for a moment. "It wasn't a memory," he eventually said. "More like… a gut feeling. Something telling me 'this is important to you'." 

Harry nodded, at a loss for words. He did not want to get his hopes up that Louis' memory might come back. "Anything else giving you that feeling?" he risked. 

"Nothing big. I'll see something in my mother's house and it'll feel familiar. The other day it was one of my sisters' dolls. Small things." Louis glanced at Harry, catching his eyes. They both looked away. "People don't give me that feeling. I'm sorry." 

Harry shook his head. "It's not your fault. You don't have to apologise. You're alive, at least," he added, knowing that the phrase must have become a platitude over time. Louis must hate being told time and again that he was not quite enough, but at least he was not dead. "We're almost at the store," Harry said to cut through the silence. 

Louis nodded and for the first time, Harry noticed what the nurse had meant when she had said Louis had a bad leg. The muddy lane was tough on Harry's lungs, the effort needed just to move forward making them burn, but he had not thought that it might prove difficult for Louis too, with his limp. He had barely noticed it before, Louis probably was good at concealing it so he would not worry anyone, but now it was obvious, every step he took a visible effort for his broken body. 

Harry offered Louis his arm like Louis had done so many times for him in the past whenever Harry was lagging behind. Instead of accepting it though, Louis squared his jaw and shook his head. 

"I'm okay. It's only… it's humid out today. The road is bad." 

"You're right," was all Harry could say; the last thing he wanted was to bruise Louis' already fragile ego. "The road is really bad. It hurts my lungs, too." 

"You said we were almost there?" 

Harry repeated that they were and pointed ahead, where faint lights could be seen at the edge of the village as people slowly woke up to start their day. The rest of the way was spent in silence as they both pushed their bodies to move forward. Harry paused for a few seconds after climbing the porch stairs to the door of the store, giving Louis time to catch up before he unlocked the door and let them in. 

"There's wood by the stove if you want to put it on," Harry instructed as he cracked a match to turn on the lamps. 

"No electricity, hm?" Louis asked as he crouched slowly, visibly in pain, to fill the stove. Harry regretted assigning him the task. 

"I'll be surprised if we ever get it here. We're the village that time forgot, it seems sometimes." 

Harry watched as Louis put the stove on, his hands moving expertly like he had done it his whole life. He had, Harry knew, but it still baffled him to see how much Louis remembered compared to all that he forgot. With a short sigh, just a second of sadness escaping before he caught it and pushed it down and away, Harry grabbed the kettle and went to fill it, catching Louis' grateful look when he put it on. 

"So, what do you usually do around here?" Louis asked, walking around the store like a prospector surveying a land. He fiddled with a few bottles and jars as he went, turning them so their labels faced forward. 

"Run the store. The owner, his son…" Harry trailed off when he saw the shadow of understanding cross Louis' face. "It's very quiet most of the time. Everyone was poor before the war and they are even poorer after it. Someday’s I see no one from the time I open to the time I close." 

"And what do you do during that time?" Louis went to the kettle when it whistled, lifting it off the stovetop. "Cups? Tea?" he asked, and smiled when Harry motioned towards the teapot. "Do you just stare at the wall?" 

"I read books, most of the time. I, um…" Harry coughed, noticing how Louis' head spun around to look at him. He lifted a hand, 'I'm fine', it said, and cleared his throat a few times. "I study, I told you that I wish I could go back to school." 

"Why don't you?" 

"I can't afford it… and I'd have to move away and leave my parents alone." Harry did not say it, but he also meant he would have to leave Louis behind. In another life, they had talked of going together, but now, Louis could hardly hope to go to school with half his memory gone. 

"What would you study, if you could?" Louis pushed on. 

"I'd like to be a teacher, I think." Harry shrugged, looked down at the papers he had been straightening for the past five minutes. "I know they, um… I know sometimes you can get help to pay for your studies if you agree to work for a few years, so I… I might try that. But… I doubt our village school taught me enough to even get in." 

"There's no harm trying, hm? You should apply." 

Harry shook his head, swallowing thickly. "I can't afford it, yet." 

" _Yet_ ," Louis repeated, his face brightening. "Good lad. We'll get you there. Now, say, what's my date of birth?" 

Louis' words stuck with Harry throughout the day, like a small flame had been lit inside of his heart. He gave Louis space as he settled down to try and sort his status, keeping his cup of tea full and focusing on the book he was reading, not wanting to intrude on something of which he had no idea. Something had passed between them, though, Harry could tell. He was more comfortable around Louis, like perhaps the first burgeoning of a friendship growing between them. Friendship was not love, but he could do with friendship, for now. 

*** 

Winter ended without warning, warmer temperatures settling in one day and never leaving, and it felt to Louis as though he was seeing it all for the first time. He knew, of course, that he was not; but he could not conjure up memories of spring as hard as he tried. They were buried deep, or gone, like the rest that mattered, so that every burgeon, every bud that he saw on his daily walks to the village, filled him with amazement. 

When he woke up in a French hospital, lost and confused, everything brown and dreary, with ever present smoke filling the suffocating air, he did not question that this was how the world looked at all times. He had more pressing matters, like who he was, or where he was, or why everything hurt so much. Later, when he was sent to London in the dead of autumn, he saw nothing to prove him wrong: from what he could see from the window of the ward where they kept him, the world was made of shades of grey and the sky rarely had a different colour than white or black. He had come to terms with it, really, without giving it much thought. Moving up to Yorkshire had been refreshing, the air especially was much purer and made him feel clean for the first time in months, but again, it was brown and grey as far as he could see. 

It was why he marveled at the regrowth happening all around him. His sisters, growing more confident around him, had started teasing him about his fascination for the life sprouting all around their house and he took it in good faith, playing it up to make them laugh, asking 'what is this?' to everything, from blades of grass to tree leaves. 

He knew what they were, he knew the names for them, but seeing them felt brand new. He had no memories that the world could be so _green._

Spring was the first exciting thing to happen in his life in the months since he was found. His letters, his numerous letters sent to different departments of the government and the army, had finally given him what he so desperately wanted: he was brought back to life, sent new papers, and issued an apology - a generic letter, but still - for having been presumed dead and abandoned. The empty casket they buried for him was dug up and the modest headstone removed from the cemetery. This part, he could tell, was what his mother needed the most. 

There were the first hints of the pale dawn light when Louis woke up that morning. The nightmares were not as frequent as they used to be, but he still struggled to sleep more than five or six hours. It was like he had unlearned how to sleep. He got out of bed, his bad leg stiff after a night of inactivity, and he stretched and massaged it for a while before he stood up and began getting dressed. Harry would be walking by the house soon and he, like every morning for weeks now, did not want to miss him. 

He made his way downstairs, shoes in his hands, and avoided the creaking floorboards he had learned to recognise, making his way to the kitchen to grab something to eat before he set out. He had some time, he saw, as he checked the grandfather clock that reigned in the living room, and he took the time to grill slices of bread, slathering them with butter and sprinkling them with sugar. He could hear his mother huffing in protest, but he was a war veteran. He was allowed to eat poorly, surely. 

Louis had time to finish his breakfast and a glass of milk and yet, Harry had not appeared on the road. Louis kept his eyes on it, he would know. He frowned and checked the time again: it was almost 6 o'clock. Harry would be late opening in time for the first morning train, and would get a lecture from the store owner. Louis did not want that to happen so he put on a jacket and a hat, and stepped into his shoes to get to the Styles' house and see what was going on. 

The path had become so familiar to him that he could let his mind wander as he walked it. He had a bad feeling about Harry's tardiness. The boy's health was like a bad joke played on him by life. In the few weeks Louis had been around him, there had not been more than two or three days in a row without Harry coughing or sneezing from a cold or whatever else he had managed to catch. He was most likely too sickly to go to work, which was worrisome. While always sick, Harry had never missed a day. 

Lights were on in the kitchen when Louis neared the house, so he felt confident that he could knock without waking anyone. Anne opened the door and welcomed him in, dark circles under her eyes. Louis wondered if she had gone to bed at all. 

"Hi Louis," she said. "Come in. You're up early." 

"I don't really sleep much," he replied. "You are, too." 

She nodded as she put the kettle on, taking out three cups. She paused, her back to Louis, and he saw her shoulders slump for a second before she squared them again. "It's pneumonia." 

Louis frowned and then understood. A knot formed in his stomach. "Oh. Has the doctor—" 

"Yes," she cut in. "It's that cold he's been dogged with all winter. I knew he was too fragile to work in the village through the winter, but he insisted." 

Louis fiddled with the hat in his hands. "Is there anything I can do to help?" 

"You're sweet, but it's better if we let him sleep. He finally did about an hour ago, the medication should keep him asleep for most of the day, it will help." 

Looking at the cup, Louis realised the third one was for Harry's father. He felt a fool to have presumed it would be his. "I can… I'll go to the store for him. I know what to do." 

She nodded again. "Thank you. He was worried about it before he fell asleep." 

"Sure," Louis replied before falling silent for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted by the whistle of the kettle. "I better be on my way, then. Have a good day." 

"You too," she said through a yawn, apologising for it immediately after. 

Louis gave her a smile before leaving. He had to hurry if he wanted to make it to the store on time, his aching leg be damned. 

*** 

The day was going well. It was quiet, as it always was, and Louis kept busy by reading one of the many books Harry kept lying around the counter, although he rarely read them anymore now that Louis accompanied him to work on most days. Coming along so often also meant he knew where everything was. Well, almost everything. 

Around midday, a man came in asking if he could borrow a pen and Louis froze. He knew Harry had pens, he had borrowed them a thousand times in his quest to be brought back to life, but Harry was a tidy person and he stored them away every night. Louis was usually busy putting out the fire and he had, stupidly, never seen where Harry put them. 

Laughing with self-deprecation, Louis asked the man to wait a minute as he began opening drawers in search of pens. He rushed to close one and it got stuck, a childish, ornate box blocking it. Louis sighed and took out the box so the drawer would close and he could access the one underneath. He would put the box back in later. 

He found the pens, in the end, and settled back down with his novel only to remember he had left the box out. He pulled it closer, curious now that he looked at it more closely. He had never seen Harry take it out or heard him mention it, and its appearance made it clear that it was not an item for sale, nor that it was related to the store. It was handmade, and handmade by a child at that. Louis lifted the lid and saw that it was filled with letters addressed to Harry. He paused. 

It would not be right to read Harry's private correspondence. Harry trusted him, now. It had taken a long time, but he finally did and Louis should not do anything to ruin it. On the other hand, Harry was mysterious; it felt like he was hiding something, or not telling Louis everything, and perhaps the letters might answer that. Besides, who other than his sister could be writing to him? He had no one else outside of the village, as far as Louis knew. 

A thought crossed his mind: maybe he had sent those letters to Harry while at the front. If so, then he had every right to read them, he had written them! Comforted by that thought, Louis pulled the first letter from the pile and carefully slipped it out of its envelope. 

_13_ _th_ _August 1918_ , it began and Louis nodded. He was right, that was a wartime date, he had sent that letter himself. He continued reading. 

_My dearest H_ , he read, and his heart sank. Dearest? Was Louis wrong? Did Harry have a girl he had not told Louis about? His certainty that he was allowed to read it crumpled, but he was too involved and he kept reading. The worst was done, he had opened it without permission. He might as well go through with it. 

By the time he reached the end of the page, his heart was thumping in his chest and he felt warm and dizzy. He had written that letter. It was his handwriting, no matter how hard he had tried to deny it at first, and his name was signed black on white at the end of the page. _Your Louis, who loves you_ . 

He blinked and read it again, and again. _Who loves you_ . Love. Love? 

He shook his head and grabbed another letter, scanning it quickly. Just as romantic as the first. He repeated the motion several times, trembling more with every love declaration that he read. It could not be. The letters implied that he and Harry were in love, that they were—he shook his head, the mere idea of it too immense to even broach. 

Yet everything seemed to click into place. Love was the missing puzzle piece, the explanation behind everything he found odd in Harry. The distrust, the hurt in his eyes when he thought Louis could not see him, the cold and aloof way he had to be around Louis, even now that they were friends, always careful, always keeping Louis at arms length. He was not impolite or weary, he was a heartbroken lover. He had to look at Louis, whom he loved, every day and be reminded that Louis had no idea they were supposed to be in love. He had to suffer the pain of searching for a familiar warmth and finding nothing but the cold presence of a stranger. 

_Love_ , he whispered, shaken. He knew he was expected to panic about it. Men were not supposed to love other men, that part he had not forgotten despite the war and the amnesia. He was not scared, though. He was curious, if he had to put a word to it. Curious, and he needed to talk with Harry. 

The rest of the day felt endless as the minutes slowly ticked by, each passing as slow as a lifetime. No one came to the store, nothing lent Louis a hand to make the wait less agonising. He could not focus on the book he had started to read, and his attempt at tidying turned frenzied. All he could do was sit and wait. 

The moment the clock struck six, he was locking the door and hurrying to the Styles' house, going as fast as his tired, overworked leg would allow. It was a few miles to their house, and he was out of breath and clammy with sweat by the time he made it there. He stopped by the gate to their land to catch his breath, his growing nerves making it a difficult task. The box he held clutched to his chest, though barely heavy enough to be worth mentioning, felt like an anvil in his grip. 

Knocking on the door, he was greeted in by Anne, who told him Harry was awake and he could go up to see him, if he wished. 

"He's dazed from his medication, but he'll be happy to see you." Her eyes flickered to the box Louis held, but she said nothing about it. "His room is the first on the left, upstairs," she instructed, and Louis felt the weight of her gaze following him as he made his way up the stairs, his leg screaming in protest after everything he had put it through that day. 

Louis paused in front of the closed door, gathering his courage before he could knock. A faint voice told him to come in and he did. 

"Hi," he said, hoping that Harry might not see the box immediately. He wished to explain before Harry panicked. 

He need not worry, though, because Harry was barely awake. He was propped up against pillows and as pale as the sheets that covered him. It was Louis' first time in Harry's bedroom - the first he could remember - and he was shocked by its austerity. It was mostly bare, it barely felt like someone lived in it, and the drawn curtains made it feel stuffy, almost like a coffin. Louis was hit by the heat in the room when he walked in and shut the door behind him. 

"How are you?" Louis asked, walking closer to the bed. 

"Alive," Harry replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "Better." 

"That's good." Louis cleared his throat. "I took care of the store for you." 

"Thanks." Harry opened his eyes and smiled at Louis, coughing almost immediately after. 

"I, um… perhaps I should come another time." Louis took a step back. "You need to rest." 

Harry shook his head even as he was coughing, holding up a hand as though to stop Louis. "I'm bored of resting," he managed to say, voice rough and breathless. "Take a seat." 

It was a command rather than an invitation and Louis obeyed, pulling the desk chair closer to the bed and sitting on it. He placed the box on his lap, folded his hands over it. "What's that?" he asked when he found nothing better to say, nodding at the bottle of medicine on the nightstand. 

"Opium," Harry answered. 

Louis' eyes narrowed. "That's… wow. Opium was given to sedate the men who would become psychotic at the hospital. Are you—" 

"I'm not crazy!" Harry coughed after his reply, shaking his head. "It's what the doctor says can help me. I've taken it for years." 

Louis looked at the dark bottle on the nightstand, swallowing. "Does it help?" 

"It doesn't make it worse. What else can I do, anyway?" 

Louis shrugged and fell silent. His hands stroked the box almost spasmodically and he wondered if he would find the courage to speak about it soon, or if he would have to wait for Harry to notice it. Sweat beaded along Louis' spine and ran down his temples. He had no idea how Harry could stand being under blankets in this heat. 

"Should I open a window? Are you hot?" he finally asked, glad to have an excuse to cut through the silence. 

"My mother won't let me. I'm too vulnerable to risk a breeze at the moment." 

Louis nearly huffed that it made no sense, but he refrained at the last second. It was better if he kept Harry in a good mood for what was about to happen. "As you wish," he said instead. "Um," he cleared his throat, "I have something to tell you." 

If Louis had not been observing Harry to see if he reacted, he would have missed the shift of his shoulders as he tensed. 

"Hm?" was all Harry replied. 

"I, um," Louis started, faltering and sighing, "I wasn't looking through your things on purpose, I was searching for a pen. And, um…" he sighed again, wishing he did not have to say what he was about to say. "I found a box of letters." 

Harry closed his eyes, said nothing. 

"And, um, I thought… maybe they were from me, and I was curious. I didn't… I wanted a bit of my past, if I could have one. But I didn't… I had no idea they would be how they were…" he trailed off, unable to describe what he had read in a clearer way. 

"How could you know," Harry said, stating it rather than asking. He still had not reopened his eyes. It unnerved Louis. "Did you read them all?" 

Louis shook his head, forgetting Harry could not see him. "I did not. Only two of them, to… to confirm what I thought I had read." 

When Harry finally opened his eyes, it was to look at Louis directly. It was worse than when they were shut, Louis decided. 

"That we were in love," Harry said. 

Louis nodded, finding his words stuck in his throat. 

"We were," Harry continued when Louis said nothing. He looked away and Louis found that he had been holding his breath. "Does that bother you?" Harry coughed. 

Louis waited until he was done. "No, I'm…" he hesitated. "We were happy, weren't we?" 

Harry closed his eyes once more. He looked in pain, and Louis knew it was from more than the pneumonia. 

"Wildly happy. Almost obscenely." Harry was silent for long enough that Louis wondered if he was done with the conversation. "My desire to go back to school… we had plans for it. It was all planned and ready, we were saving money for it." 

"But the war happened…" 

Harry continued as though Louis had not spoken. He was lying against his pillows, eyes closed, speaking like a tap had been opened and he could not close it. "We did everything right to make it happen. You were going to work to support us while I studied, you never liked school. We would move to London, away from everyone who had their opinion of our love. It was all within reach…" Harry held up his hand, as though reaching for something only he could see. "And then it all crumbled. The moment you were drafted, we never spoke of it again. We knew it was over. We both… we assumed you would never come back." 

"And I almost didn’t…" 

Again, when Harry opened his eyes to look at Louis, it hurt more than he anticipated. "No. You're not really back. You're not Louis. You wear his face and use his voice, but you're a stranger to me." 

Louis gulped, but said nothing. He knew all of this, of course. He could guess it, could only imagine how it felt for Harry, but to hear him say it without his usual tact, it cut Louis' voice. 

"And then you come here while I'm ill. Did you think reading our correspondence would bring who you were back? That it would bring 18 years of friendship back? Please, you're nothing but the shadow of him, at best," Harry spat out, stopping to cough harder than he had since Louis arrived. It made him double over, causing him to gasp for air in between fits. Louis almost got up to go help, but he knew it would not be received well. 

Without a word, Louis left the room and went downstairs to fetch a glass of water. Anne was not in the kitchen and he acted quickly, unwilling to talk to her. He went back upstairs and placed it on the nightstand before retreating back to his chair. Harry had calmed down, but his breathing was still ragged. Louis waited for him to talk, but he said nothing. He took a long sip of water and heaved out a long, heavy sigh. 

"I'm sorry I came back the way I did. Believe me, I would rather be myself. I hate this fucking amnesia," Louis began. His voice was calm even though inside he was boiling with anger. He was not angry at Harry, that he was sure of. Harry's anger was legitimate and more than due. "Sometimes I think it would have hurt everyone less if I'd just died." 

"Don't say that!" Harry gasped. 

As much as he hated to admit it, it warmed Louis' heart to know Harry did not wish him dead. He was worried he might, after his diatribe. 

"I don't know," Louis continued. "I'll never be who I used to be for everyone, and I don't know if anyone likes the me that came back from the war. I don't really feel like I exist. I'm just there, like a shadow. I'm sure I break your heart daily when I don't reciprocate your love…" Louis trailed off, unable to go on. It hurt to voice it aloud. 

"Yes," Harry said, taking another sip of water. "It isn't your fault, though. You're not doing it on purpose, you can't do anything about it." 

"I…" Louis began. His heart was thumping in his chest because of what he was about to say. It came to him spontaneously, unplanned and unexpected. "I'd like if we could… be in love like we were." 

"What?" Harry's question came out as a croak. 

The air stood still between them and Louis felt the space between seconds stretching as he tried to gather his thoughts. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. The letters had lit a fire within him, something he had no idea could even exist, and he found he wished to stoke it. 

"I… yes." He swallowed, hard. "I'm not sure I can explain it… but you're very dear to me and I… I don't know, what I read in the letters felt right in a way nothing has since I came back. I want to try." 

Harry shook his head. "You can't _try_ . I can't stand it if you only try. I need… it's not a game to me." 

"For me either!" 

"You can't just choose to fall in love with me again. That's not how it works." 

"I know… but I can get to know you better and see what feelings unfold?" 

"Nothing's stopping you…" Harry sighed, "But don't hold it against me if I keep my heart safe through it." He struggled to finish his sentence, coughing through half of the words. 

"I understand," Louis said. "But… keep it in mind, maybe? That I'm trying?" Louis got up and placed the box of letters on the nightstand. "I'll let you rest, now. You're ill." 

"I'm aware," Harry said through a cough. "Keep them, the letters," he added. "Read them. Maybe it'll help." 

Louis nodded. "I'll bring them back when I'm done." 

"Hm, yes. You must. They're all I have left of you." 

Louis pressed his lips together, saying nothing in reply. He hesitated a few seconds then moved to put the chair back where it belonged. "I'll manage the store until you're better, don't worry about it." 

"I'm not." 

With a small smile, flattered by Harry's trust, Louis nodded. "Get the rest you need to get better now. I'm close if you want… I can come again another day, if you wish." 

Now that Louis was about to leave, he noticed how exhausted Harry looked. He had selfishly ignored it to make it about his own feelings and needs, but he could tell his presence had been a strain on the boy. He began backing up towards the door. 

"As you wish," Harry replied, sinking lower under his blankets with a shiver. "Goodbye." 

"Bye," Louis replied before slinking out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. 

He felt drained, too, and he headed straight to bed when he got home, finding he had no stomach for food. He had more important things to do; he had a boy to fall in love with. He opened the box of letters and took out the first from the bottom of the pile with trembling hands. 

*** 

The early days of spring turned into weeks, each bringing new fascinating things for Louis to discover. One morning, his mother asked if he would like to help with the vegetable garden and, sinking his hands in the moist earth, Louis felt a stirring, a pull of his heart that seemed to say ' _you like this, you've always liked this_ .' Every day after that, Louis would fuss over the garden, making sure it was growing well. He thought that perhaps, next year, he might help his neighbours like he used to, once he learned how to make things grow again. 

Harry's health stayed fragile following his pneumonia, but as the days grew warmer, colour came back to his face. He no longer dragged his gangly body from his house to the shop and back, and now had a spring in his step, a sparkle in his eyes that Louis had never seen before. 

There were a lot of things about Harry that Louis had never seen before—or rather, noticed. He had never noticed how green his eyes were or how they crinkled when he laughed. He had never noticed the sound of his laugh, coming out loud and sharp as though Harry never expected it to. He never noticed how long and pale his body was, milky skin and the overgrown limbs of a boy who grew up too fast, like a stalk seeking light, a ghostly tinge to him brought on by constant illness, like he was not quite tangible. Louis also became conscious of the way Harry looked at him, not quite as hurt as before, now with a warmth that stirred feelings deep within him. 

That warmth he felt, that fondness he had developed towards Harry, made him optimistic that he might, in time, give Harry what he had lost. Maybe not a love as deep as it used to be, but a pale shadow of it, enough to sustain him. He wanted to become what he had been to Harry, he wanted to fall in love with him. His only chance for a future seemed to lie alongside the boy and he wanted, desperately, to have it. 

It was not until one incident that he finally understood his deepest desire: to make Harry his, to have him as his one person and to be his, unconditionally, like they were before they lost it all. The letters had taught him how they were, and he wanted it back. 

It was a warm May afternoon and he had convinced Harry to sit out on the shop's porch so they could enjoy the weather. They both took books outside, reading in silent companionship, and Louis wondered in that moment if it might be all that happiness really was: a quiet moment with a friend, a warm breeze blowing in, carrying the scent of earth and vegetation, a cleansing smell that vivified Louis. 

They were interrupted by a shout of Harry's name. Louis looked up to see a boy approaching. He had brown hair and a genial face. 

"Niall! Hey!" Harry replied, waving him over. 

Louis frowned and watched as he approached, wondering who he might be that Harry had never mentioned him before. He also watched as Harry got up to hug the newcomer, laughing when he clapped his back through the hug. 

"How've you been?" Harry asked. "Come on, sit for a bit," he added, going back to his seat on the porch and motioning for him to join. 

"I've been good, it's been a long winter, I'm glad to be back here. What about you?" 

The boy - _Niall_ \- had a thick accent that Louis could not place. 

"I've been ill most of winter and spring. You know me." 

"But you made it through, like always." 

"Barely." 

They both laughed and Louis bristled as an outsider to their bond. He cleared his throat and forced a smile when Niall looked over. 

"Hey, I'm Niall Horan," he said, voice pleasantly polite as he offered Louis his hand to shake. 

"Louis Tomlinson," Louis replied, shaking his hand as briefly as was acceptable. 

With a gasp, Niall whipped his head to look at Harry. "You found him and you didn't write to me?!" 

Harry's laughter was filled with delight. "I wanted it to be a surprise." He glanced at Louis. "I found half of him, though. His memory's gone." 

Niall let out a low whistle. "I'm sorry, pal." 

Louis shrugged. "I can't really be bothered when I don't know what I don't remember," he said coolly, downplaying the agony of his amnesia to keep the mood light, ignoring the sting of Harry's words. "So who exactly are you?" 

"He's one of the renters of our land that I was telling you about. We became friends over the years. I wrote to you about him, but… well." 

"I forgot, yes," Louis replied. 

"He's from Ireland, that's an island off the—" 

"I know where Ireland is. I didn't recognise the accent, but I know about Ireland." 

Louis' temper was becoming shorter with every passing second and he had no idea why. His rebuttal upset Harry, it was obvious, and he turned his attention to Niall, inquiring about his life since the last summer. Louis stayed with them for a moment before sighing and getting up, brushing dust off his trousers. 

"Where are you going?" Harry asked. 

"I'm hungry. Bakery," he said before jogging down the few steps of the porch and heading across the village, using the errand as an excuse to clear his head. 

It made no sense, the sudden flare of hatred he felt for a man he had never met before. Harry was allowed to have friends outside of Louis, it was _reassuring_ that he did. It meant he was not completely alone the years Louis was gone, and yet the sight of their friendship ripped at Louis' heart, sharp and white hot, unreasonable beyond words. He had no reason to feel betrayed that Harry was not only his friend, that he did not have the exclusivity of Harry's attention, even if he was the strongest link to his past. Harry knew that Louis knew about their past now, and yet he acted in such a cavalier way that one might think he was trying to hurt Louis, enact vengeance for the pain he had brought him since he came back. 

With fire in his heart, Louis pushed the door of the bakery and stormed inside, unable to quiet his mood as he placed his order. He watched as the baker's daughter cowed under his stern voice, blushing and stuttering that it was free for war veterans, and he managed a smile as he thanked her and walked out, feeling worse now that he had been awful to someone who had nothing to do with his pain. 

Harry and Niall were laughing when he neared them. Louis had never heard him laugh that way, happy and wild, and he took a second to commit it to memory, this new thing about Harry that he had never noticed. When Harry's laugh turned into a cough, Louis ran up to him, worry tearing through the fog of his anger. 

"Hey, hey, careful," he told Harry, rubbing his back. 

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Harry said, waving Louis off. "No one's ever died of laughter." 

"Otherwise I'd have killed you long ago," Niall replied, and they both laughed again. 

Gritting his teeth, Louis grabbed his book from the porch and turned to leave. "I told my mother I'd help with the garden today," he said, already walking away. 

"See you later!" Harry and Niall called after him, their voices echoes of each other. 

Filled with hurt and anger, Louis left without looking back. Niall was going to ruin everything Louis was trying to achieve with his jokes and his smiles, and how was Louis supposed to compete with someone who knew Harry, someone who _remembered_ him? 

Louis had hoped the the summer would be when he might fall in love with Harry, but despite his efforts, all he seemed to manage was to push Harry further away. He had his pity, at first, but that was gone. He was left with, what, contempt maybe? He could have cried, and he did, safe on the lonely dirt road leading home. 

*** 

Harry watched as Louis walked away, unable to tear his eyes from him until he was out of sight. Niall elbowed him and brought him back to the moment, and the smirk on his face made Harry flush. 

"So he's back, hm," Niall asked, stretching his legs and leaning back on his hands, his face turned to the sun, eyes closed. Harry mirrored him, grateful for the warm caress of the rays. 

"Yes, he's back." 

"That's it?" Niall laughed. "That's all you have to say?" 

Harry shrugged, forgetting that Niall could not see him. The sound of a motor car stopped Harry before he could talk and he opened his eyes to watch it drive by, remembering his own excitement and naïvety when he had ridden in one with his aunt in London. The first time he was in a car, back when he still had hope that everything would be back to normal with Louis. It also brought back pangs of pain, of the disembodied sound of a motor that marked Louis' departure, the last day of their previous life. More and more cars could be seen in the village and he had heard rumours that the roads might soon be paved, but he hoped they were wrong. He did not like motor cars. 

Once the ruckus of the engine had receded in the distance, Harry turned to Niall, finding him looking his way. "I don't have much else to say. He forgot me. That's the end of it." 

"He likes you, though," Niall replied and he had the nerve to look smug. "He hates me." 

"No and no," Harry mumbled, shaking his head. "He tolerates me, but I'm…" he paused, searching for the right words, "I'm not able to show him any sort of… of friendliness. Or warmth. I'm an icebox around him." 

Niall let out a laugh. "No, no, trust me. He hates me because we're friends." 

"But we're not… you and I aren't… _you know_ ." 

Harry chanced a glance at Niall. He had not wanted to tell him everything when their relationship slipped into a comfortable friendship, a few years earlier. He knew what he and Louis had was taboo, that he could get himself killed if he was not careful—he had learned to decipher the veiled ways newspapers reported on events of the kind, had never realised how dangerous and reckless they had been, because Louis had been sheltering him from the ugliest side of the world. Harry had thought - foolishly, stupidly - for years, that his father was an exception, not the rule. 

Niall had known, almost from the start, he later admitted. The way Harry talked about Louis reminded him of the way a couple of friends he had met during his brief time at Trinity had talked about each other, and he made sure to tell Harry that he did not mind, but that he would not fill in for Louis. Harry had avoided him for a few days after that, upset and insulted by his insinuation, but Niall's sunny disposition and insistence that they be best friends had eventually won. It had felt good, afterwards, to open up about Louis, about his worries at first, that he would never come back, and later about his conviction that he could not be dead, that it was impossible that he were dead.  It was Niall who had found him on the day he learned the news of Louis' death, Niall who talked him out of doing something pointless and tragic. 

"He doesn't know that." 

Harry rolled his eyes. "He would be stupid to assume otherwise. Why would I have searched for him for months if I was with you? It would mean I'd moved on, I _never_ moved on, he should know that." 

"You just said you're aloof." 

Harry sighed, annoyed that Niall was being undeniably right. "I don't want him to feel like he owes me anything, especially not love. He's already trying too hard to fall for me, as though reading a handful of letters he sent me when he was someone else will solve everything." 

Surprised by his own words, Harry sighed. He had never verbalised it, this worry that he had ever since Louis found the letters. He had noticed a change in his behaviour, he could feel how hard Louis was trying, and it worried him. He did not want his love if it had been coerced, forcibly created to satisfy what he assumed - correctly - Harry wanted. The more Louis tried to get closer, the more Harry stepped back, protectively. 

Niall lifted his eyebrows and shifted on the porch, leaning forward with his arms on his legs. "He's read the letters?" 

"He found them while  looking through the drawers of the counter inside. He was 'looking for a pen'," Harry said, rolling his eyes as he repeated Louis' excuse. "I don't really believe that, I think he was just being curious and disrespectful. I was delirious with fever when he told me and I let him read them. I regret it." 

"Why?" 

Harry sighed once more. He hated how transparent he felt around Niall. He liked to believe he was mysterious, that the gates to his secret garden were bolted shut and impenetrable, but Niall always found a way to kick his way in. Harry always told him too much. 

"Because I already said it, he feels like he owes me love." 

"And that's bad because…?" 

With half a mind to kick him on his way to his parents' house, Harry let out a groan. "I don't know! All I know is that I wish he would fall in love with me spontaneously instead of feeling like he _has_ to!" 

Niall hummed, nodding like he was pondering what Harry had said, but Harry knew better: he was putting on a show so that Harry would realise how stupid he sounded without having to say it. It worked too well. 

"Just go, I'm sick of seeing you," Harry snapped, rolling his eyes. "My father'll be expecting you." 

Laughing, Niall stood up. He dusted the back of his trousers. "Has he gotten better?" 

"He has gout now, so I’ll let you draw your own conclusions." 

Niall grimaced. "Lovely. I'm really looking forward to that." He bent down to pick up his suitcase. "Think about everything you just told me, yeah?" 

"Fuck off," Harry replied, narrowing his eyes when Niall laughed as he walked away. 

*** 

A dry summer settled in, bringing with it long, warm evenings and a relief to Harry's health, enough that he could enjoy time spent outside of work and his home. It was only with Niall, picking up their tradition from the previous years as soon as the weather permitted it. They would walk for hours, slowly making their way around the Styles' lands, talking about everything and nothing, about Niall's desire to have a child with his wife soon, about Harry's savings and how close he was to being able to go to London, just one more year perhaps, and about Louis. 

His relationship with Niall was slowly improving, but there was still a lot of tension coming from Louis' side, which Niall insisted was jealousy, but Harry refused to admit. He was not yet capable of facing the possibility that, perhaps, Louis might be falling for him. It was absurd. Niall was winning Louis over, though, relentlessly trying to befriend him to get him to drop his guard. Harry knew Niall sometimes spent time with Louis while he was at work, and he wondered what they could possibly be talking about. He thought he knew, he had to be their main topic of discussion, but that did not mean he liked the idea. 

A part of Harry, a small part that he barely dared think about, was jealous that Niall spent time with Louis. With summer arriving, Louis had rediscovered his love of working the earth and he spent his days bringing what little land the Tomlinsons still owned back to life. He had not come to spend a single day with Harry at the store since Niall arrived. Harry tried not to draw conclusions between the two events, but he could not avoid supposing that Louis had stopped coming out of spite for the way Harry had never quite stopped treating him. 

He was losing Louis and he deserved it. 

One late afternoon in June, Harry was coming back from work, his usual dark musings spinning around his head, when Louis called his name as he walked by. Harry hesitated, his mind in the wrong place to see Louis, but before he could decide whether he would stop or not, Louis had begun advancing towards him, calling his name again and walking as fast as his bad leg would allow. 

"Hey, Harry, hey, I've got something to show you!" he said, catching up with Harry on the road. "Do you have a minute?" 

Harry forced a smile on his face. "Yes, of course, what is it?" he asked, following Louis as he made his way towards the back of the house. 

"I found something today, I want to ask you about it." 

Harry's questioning died when he saw they were headed towards the barn. He had hoped Louis would never find their old hideout, because Harry never wanted to set foot in there again. It carried too many memories of their past, too many reminders that it was a chapter of his life that he was long overdue to mourn. It would never come back. 

He said nothing, aware that his silence was rude to Louis, but unable to find anything to say. If Louis noticed, he never showed it, and he kept leading Harry towards heartbreak. 

"I was looking for a scythe this morning and thought there might be one in the barn, and I noticed a ladder I’d never seen before," he explained as they entered the barn. 

The dry smell of dust and hay, the dim light and suffocating heat swallowing them, nearly brought Harry to tears. Nothing had changed, like time had been suspended when Louis was drafted. It was as though, if Harry was quiet enough, he might hear their muffled giggles coming through the rafters. 

"Are you good to go up?" Louis asked, showing hesitance for the first time since he called Harry over. 

"Yeah," was all Harry said before climbing, his body remembering the easiest way to climb out of the hole once he had reached the second floor. 

Harry moved out of the way to let Louis come up, concentrating on the heat and how it made his shirt stick to his skin rather than on the distant familiarity of the place. 

"Isn't this place great?" Louis asked after he had climbed, a wide smile on his face. "Did you know about it?" 

Harry swallowed and nodded. "It was ours." 

Louis' smile dimmed at Harry's words and he nodded, turning solemn. "I thought so. I…" he stopped and fetched a metal box and a book, "I found this filled with disgusting sweets and there was this book next to it." 

Harry did not need to look to know he was holding _Leaves of Grass_ . They had been reading it together before Louis left and on their last night there, Harry had accidentally left it behind. He had never had the heart to go back for it. The book was ruined by years out in the humidity. Its pages had gone wavy and it had tripled in size, bloated and fragile, probably mildewed. 

"Did we come here a lot?" 

Harry nodded again and reached for the book. He took it from Louis and ran a hand over its cover. He had longed for this book the first years without Louis, but had gradually forgotten it, perhaps partly intentionally. It had been their first proof that at least one other person in the world felt the way they did. Carefully, almost reverently, Harry opened the book, the spine cracking in protest. It was as he had thought, the pages dotted with mold, a poisoned apple for Harry's weak lungs. 

"We spent most evenings here, when the weather and my health allowed it," Harry replied, flipping through the pages and running his fingers over the notes they had added in the margins. "We had our first kiss, here. We had our first _everything_ here." 

Louis was silent, the stillness only broken by the sound of the pages Harry was tearing away from each other. He would have to burn the book once he was done recklessly touching it or else he would keep it, he knew, and it would kill him. 

"Harry," he finally began. His voice was softer than Harry had heard in years. It made him look up. "You're avoiding me." 

"Why do you say that?" 

Louis shrugged, sitting down on a bale of hay and rubbing the thigh of his bad leg. "Ever since I read the letters and we had that talk, you've been even colder with me." 

"I barely remember that day, I was feverish," Harry lied, avoiding Louis' gaze by staring at the book in his hands. "I haven't changed how I am." 

He remembered that day like a flash of lucidity in a long stretch of confusion and sickness. He could remember it in stark detail, remember what was said and how he had spent long minutes pinching his arm under the blankets to be sure he was not dreaming, that Louis truly was in his bedroom, saying he wished to fall in love once more. It had felt too good to be true and it probably was, in the end. The chances that this new Louis would love him again were slim, and Harry could not risk his heart by hoping that he would. He had suffered enough at the hands of fate when it came to Louis and he was done playing the game. He wanted to get a chance to lick his wounds and mourn what he had lost. 

"You have. I'm sorry if I offended you that day by saying I wanted to feel what we used to. I was sincere, even if it might not have sounded like I was. Won't you give me a chance?" 

Harry closed his eyes. "If I give you a chance and it doesn't work, I'll have lost you twice. How can you ask that of me, if you care even only slightly about me?" 

"Harry, I…" Louis trailed off, let out a sigh. "I don't know how love feels, I don't know what I felt for you before, but what I do know is that you're… you bought me back to life when everyone had already buried me. You've been like a beacon in the night ever since I met you. I don't know how I’m supposed to do this without you." 

"Do what?" Harry asked, opening his eyes and trying to keep his voice as cold and distant as he could despite the knot in his throat. 

"Live." 

"Don't be silly," Harry snapped, closing the book sharply. He coughed when a cloud of dust - and mold - rose from the book. "You can live without me." 

"You're my memory. Everything I once was lies within you. You're the one who knew me best." 

"And because of that, I ought to take care of you for the rest of our lives?" 

Louis let out a groan that surprised Harry. "Look, we've had this talk before, some version of it anyway. I don't know if I had more patience before, but I do know that I don't have much of it now. It's been months since I came back, so I think it's fair that I ask for a clear answer: is there any chance that _anything_ might be rekindled between us, or is it a lost cause? Because if it is, I'll let you go and we can both move on with our lives." 

Harry narrowed his eyes, Louis' change of tone prickling his temper. "And why exactly do I owe you an answer to that?" 

"Because it's my fucking life that you're holding hostage, Harry. If you're over me, over what we had, I'll do something with myself instead of being stuck in this… this purgatory with no end in sight. You think I enjoy merely existing? I do nothing with my life except follow you around and garden. I would be glad to follow you around if I knew it had a purpose. I just need to know if I'm holding out for something worth fighting for, otherwise I'll get started on finding a wife and making new memories." 

"Is that an ultimatum? 'Love me or I'll intentionally make myself miserable'?" 

"Why do you assume I'd be more miserable with a wife and children than I am now?" 

"You think _you_ are miserable? Try—" 

Louis cut him off, raising his voice. "Oh, piss off, Harry! Not everything is about you. I know you think the Earth revolves around you because you're ill and you've always gotten your way, but this time you're not the sickest person around, so shut it. Anything that's not trying to turn into someone I don't remember will be less miserable. If you're over me, I get to fucking move forward and become someone instead of being the ghost of your lover." 

Anger swelled inside Harry and he threw the book at Louis, understanding at once why his father destroyed objects when in a fury. It felt good to watch Louis squawk in surprise and bat the book away before it hit his head, felt good to see the look of shock and indignation on his face. 

"What do you want me to say?! Should I beg?" Harry asked, throwing his hands up in the air. 

"Depends what you'd beg for." 

Harry opened his mouth to reply before he realised he did not know what to say. "I'm scared!" he ended up shouting, the effort causing him to cough. "I'm scared that if I let you in, it'll be a mistake! Is that what you wanted to hear?!" 

Shaking, Harry sat on a bale of hay and crossed his arms over his chest, bending forward as he coughed. He should know better than to shout. It never ended well. 

"It's a good beginning," Louis replied, mollified. He came over and sat next to Harry, reaching over to stroke his back. 

Harry twitched in surprise at the touch, but did not push him away. "You like that I'm scared?" 

"No, I hate it. But it's the first emotion that you’ve admitted to me. Will you let me… try? At least? Won't you give me a chance? I really do want to give you what you've lost." 

"I'm tired of… of being hurt." 

Louis swallowed. "Me too. I'm sorry I yelled at you." 

Harry shook his head. "I did most of the yelling. I'm not sorry, though." He glanced at Louis and saw a small smile on his lips. "You think it's funny?" 

"Niall warned me you had a temper." 

"Oh, so you like him, now?" 

Louis had the decency to blush. "He made it very clear that he had no romantic interest in you and that I was absolutely stupid to think I had to be jealous of his friendship with you. I must say, as much as I appreciate honesty, that was… rough to hear." 

"Niall is… he does not believe in tact." 

"So, um. Will you give me a chance?" Louis tried again, his tone lighter this time, more hopeful now that they had shared something almost like a laugh. 

Speaking before he could think twice about it, Harry replied with words he hoped he would not grow to regret: "Stop asking for it and take it. Prove to me you want it." 

*** 

Without warning, Louis came back into Harry's life. After weeks of avoiding him, only working in his garden and watching Harry and Niall walk by at night without joining, he reclaimed his place by Harry's side. The first morning, Louis was waiting for Harry at the edge of his land to accompany him to work, Harry tried not to read too much into it, assuming he had nothing better to do that day. He would not consider, yet, that Louis was taking him at his word. 

The same night, he joined Harry and Niall on their walk, mostly talking with Niall about the state of their crops. Harry felt left out, but he was partly to blame: his surprise that Louis was there robbed him of any thought that he might have turned into a conversation. He had nothing to say, yet it felt good to hear Louis talk about something with enthusiasm. He could see part of his old self in the man discussing soil with Niall, a shadow of his former spark coming back. 

It became their new routine; Louis might miss a few days at the shop, but he never skipped the walks. Harry could see that it was not always easy for him, his leg acting up, and on those days Harry made sure to steer them towards easier paths, shortening the walks so Louis could keep up without risking injury. 

Slowly, helped by Niall's presence, Harry was drawn out of his shell around Louis. It was too difficult to be constantly torn between being friendly and open with Niall, yet closed off around Louis, and Harry dropped his guard. It was gradual, happening so slowly that Harry did not notice it. What he did notice, though, was that Louis warmed up around him too, becoming even friendlier than he had been since his return. 

They walked and talked, remaking the world with their words, discussing dreams and aspirations made impossible by their humble beginnings, unattainable and out of reach, but still enough to keep the flame inside of them alive, to keep them reaching forward in case it might get better, if they tried hard enough. Some days, Louis talked about what he remembered from the war, mostly through nightmares and anxieties he could not explain. On those days, they walked further and longer than ever, well into the night, until Harry had to fight against the fire in his lungs to keep going, to make his breathing as regular as he could, so that Louis would not notice and worry, to let him say all he had to say. Niall, like Harry, had not been drafted. He dropped out of university, and rushed to get married to his sweetheart of the time so he would be spared the war, and he carried the same guilt that Harry did. It helped to listen to Louis, to know that they might offer him a brief moment of comfort through the horrors that still lived within his mind. 

Other days, it was Harry's turn to talk, to admit that every day he was surprised that he was still alive. His mother took the news of his illness like a death sentence and treated him as such, coddling him to the point of suffocation, and her fears drilled into Harry's mind the certainty that he would not live to be an adult. He barely planned for it, expecting to be gone before he had to make anything of himself, and he reeled to see that he might have to become someone, after all. They both knew he yearned for education, he talked about it at length, and they let him, listening to his fears that he was not bright enough to fulfill his dream to go to university, even if he saved enough money to get there. 

Niall was mostly quiet, letting them speak to each other. It took a while for Harry to notice that he was purposeful, that he had something on his mind when he chose to be withdrawn. Harry wanted to give him hell for it, but he had to concede that it was working. He felt closer to Louis than he had in years and, despite every conviction that he had against it, he was growing to like the new person that he was. 

It had been a particularly dry summer, but August brought along rain, entire days and nights, turning the roads into muddy pools; it was nearly impossible for Harry to make it to work and it trapped him inside at night. He yearned for their walks and found that he missed Louis' company almost as starkly as he did in the first months after he was drafted. 

On the fourth evening of rain, Harry was reading by the stove, trying to fight off the chill and damp, when someone knocked at the door. He went to open it and could not hold back his smile when he saw Louis and Niall standing on the porch, both looking like half-drowned kittens. Harry ushered them inside. 

"What are you doing here?" 

Niall shrugged, "We talked about it today, we're bored of the rain so we thought we'd come and keep you company." 

Louis smiled tentatively. "I brought playing cards." 

"I'm glad to see you both," Harry admitted, putting the kettle on and rummaging through the cupboards to find a tin of biscuits for his guests. "We have to be quiet, though." He glanced at the ceiling as he did. 

"Your father?" Niall asked, following his gaze. 

When Harry nodded, Louis looked quizzical. "What's wrong with him?" 

"Gout," Harry began, "Amongst many other things. It's bad tonight because of the rain. My mother is upstairs with him." 

Louis grimaced. "I understand. My leg is killing me lately." He pulled a chair out at the table, the feet loudly scratching against the floor. "I feel like a lion in a cage, I'm sick of being indoors." 

"And I'm not sleeping in a tent anymore, I'm on a raft," Niall added. 

"My lungs struggle, too," Harry said, wanting to join their complaints and feel part of the group. 

"I keep having dreams about trenches in the rain too," Louis continued, lowering his voice. "I wake up feeling like I'm drowning in all the mud." 

His words tightened Harry's heart, making it ache at the pain and hardship Louis had to endure. His mind drifted to images of Louis at the front, fed by everything he read on the topic, nightmare images filling his mind's eye, making him shudder. Bringing the biscuits to the table, he stroked Louis' back a few times with a sympathetic frown before attending to the kettle. He only realised what he’d done a few seconds later and he turned his back to the room, blushing. 

A heavy silence settled on the room, only broken by the muffled voices of Harry's parents coming from up the stairs, his mother's mild-tempered tone smothered by his father's complaints, and the ticking of the grandfather clock in another room. 

"What are we playing?" Niall asked when Harry brought the tea over and sat at the table, careful not to make the chair scratch against the floor. 

"Whatever we choose, I'll have to learn the rules again, I think," Louis replied, laughing. 

It was too loud and Harry sent a nervous glance towards the ceiling. "You choose, Niall." 

Niall settled on a game and made quick work of explaining it to Louis before shuffling the cards. They began the game and rapidly, Harry understood that they would not finish it. Niall and Louis were being too loud, laughing and arguing about the rules despite Harry's warning that they be quiet when they arrived, and within minutes his mother was almost running down the stairs, a look of horror on her face. 

"What's all this noise?" she asked, tone short and imperious. "Your father's trying to sleep, Harry!" 

"We're sorry, Mrs Styles," Niall immediately replied, his expression changing from boisterous to repentant in seconds. "Harry warned us, it's not his fault." 

Anne shook her head, wincing in time with Harry when they heard something crash upstairs. "They have to go, Harry," she said. "It's a very bad night." 

"We'll go to my house," Louis offered, gathering the cards. "It's no problem, Mrs Styles." 

"Harry's not going out in that rain! It's bad enough he went to work, but now it's too late and too cold outside, he'll catch his death!" 

Her words enraged Harry and he got up, his chair loudly dragging against the floor. "I'm going, Mum. I'm not arguing about this with you, I'm going." 

"Harry, your health…" 

"Is fine. I'm going." Grabbing a coat, he shrugged it on, turning for the door to lead the way out. "Don't wait up for me." 

He walked out before she could try to reason with him, only checking if Niall and Louis were following after he was halfway to the Tomlinsons' house. 

"Sorry about what happened," he said, raising his voice over the rain. "Welcome to my prison." 

They said nothing, only followed, as Harry walked as quickly as the slippery mud allowed. He let Louis catch up when his house came into sight, and he walked up the porch and into the house after him, with Niall closing the line. 

"Oh, look at the state of you!" Johannah exclaimed when they walked in. "No umbrellas in this rain! Oh, Lottie, put the kettle on!" she fussed. "Shoes off, come on in." 

Harry toed off his muddy shoes and let Johannah steer him inside, exchanging an amused glance with Louis. From upstairs, Harry could hear Louis' younger sisters playing, running along the hallway and calling out to each other. The contrast with the mausoleum silence of his own house made Harry sigh with sadness, only more aware of the smallness of his life. 

"Is there cake left, Mum?" Louis asked, opening cupboards and letting them close loudly. "It was Charlotte's birthday recently, Mum made us a delightful cake." 

Surprised by Louis' words, Harry glanced at Johannah. She was glowing with happiness at being called 'Mum'. They smiled at each other. 

"Yes, Louis, right there on the counter, in the same tin that it was in yesterday," she said with a laugh, rolling her eyes. "Do you have _any_ memory left, boy?" 

Louis paused, looked at her with his head cocked. "Who are you, ma'am?" he asked, before he burst out laughing. "Piss off," he continued, prying the lid off the tin and messily cutting up pieces from the cake, "I'm trying to be nice to my guests, it's the first time I’ve had guests in my entire life. No one argue with me on this, I know I'm right." 

Harry's heart gave a lurch. It was something Louis would have said before, a perfect example of the old Louis' sense of humour. 

"It's so nice to have you over again, Harry. We missed you," Johannah said, smiling softly. Harry had a feeling she could tell the emotions he was going through. 

"Me, too," he said, sitting down at the table and accepting the cup of tea Charlotte brought over. "We were going to play cards at my house, but it's not a good night for my father." 

"When is it ever?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "Anne is a saint, I swear. Would you accept more players? I'm sure everyone would like to play." Without waiting for an answer, she raised her voice to call the younger children from upstairs. 

Louis took a seat next to Harry before the table filled up with his siblings and he winked at him as the noise in the room tripled as everyone got settled. The tin of cake was placed in the middle of the table, out for everyone to grab bits of it whenever they felt like it, and Niall passed cards to everyone, explaining the rules as he went. 

The first game was chaotic as everyone questioned and argued the rules. Harry's hopes that the next might be easier were squashed when Louis left for a moment, returning with a bottle of whiskey and glasses. 

"Let's make this a party, shall we?" he asked. "Harry, do you drink?" 

"Of course," Harry replied. "Why do you ask?" 

"I've never seen you do it," he shrugged. "Niall?" 

"I'm Irish, mate," Niall replied, letting out a loud laugh. 

Louis poured them glasses and they began another game, which led to a third, then a fourth. Johannah called bedtime for her children and herself, asking them to keep their voices down if they were to keep playing into the night. Harry watched her kiss the top of Louis' head before making her way upstairs, his heart swelling at the sight of their rekindled tenderness. 

"Ever played drinking games?" Niall asked once they were alone. 

"I probably did in the army, but what do I know?" Louis said, shrugging. 

"No," Harry replied with a shake of his head. 

"Of course not," Niall laughed, "We'll keep it simple." He shuffled the cards and placed them in between them on the table. "Fill our glasses, Tomlinson. We'll each, in turn, draw a card from the deck. Whoever has the lowest card must drink." 

Harry frowned. "That's not a game, that's just luck." 

"You've never gambled either, I take it." 

"Sweet, innocent Harry," Louis commented. 

"Oi!" Harry snapped. "For all we know, you did nothing of this in the army. You're only _assuming_ you did." 

Louis stuck out his tongue at Harry. "And no one can argue with my amnesia," he said, tapping his temple with a smirk. "All right, I'm filling our glasses, let's go." 

When Harry had replied that he drank, he had really only meant wine at Christmas dinner. As the night progressed, he could not recall having ever felt the way that he did, his thoughts muffled and confused, his movements slowed like going through treacle. He lost track of time as they played, lost track of how much he had to drink. He laughed until his cheeks hurt, until his lungs burned and he had to cough. He felt normal, like he belonged in the world, for the first time in so long that he could not remember. 

"The bottle's empty," Louis announced, "And it's…" he squinted at the clock, then laughed, "Three o'clock. Guess who's not going to church tomorrow morning?" 

"Us!" Harry replied, laughing through the word. "Oh, I've got to get home," he continued, pushing his chair back to stand up. He staggered on the spot, the chair tipping to the ground behind him. "Oops!" 

Louis only laughed more. "You're not leaving. You'll manage to drown standing up in your state. Niall, too. I'll get blankets for you two." He got up and let out another laugh. "Oh, wow, the room spins. You're the devil, Niall," he said, pointing an accusing finger at him. 

"No, just fun," Niall replied, making his way to the living room. "I'll take the couch." 

He looked steadier on his feet than Harry and Louis and the sight of it made Harry pout. 

"What are you pouting for, darling?" Louis asked, putting his hand on Harry's back. 

"He's steady," he replied, pointing to Niall. "I don't know how I'll climb the stairs." 

"The sta—" Louis began, but he stopped mid-word. "I'll help." 

Harry had slept at the Tomlinsons' house before and he always slept in Louis' room. He was not about to change that habit. He watched as Louis fetched blankets for Niall, then smiled when Louis offered him his arm. Harry took it and they slowly made their way up the stairs, giggling and tripping over their feet, shushing each other through their laughter. Sneaking upstairs, trying to be quiet, it was like Harry had his Louis back, the one from before the war, the one he loved. His heart felt full to the brim with affection for the man and he clung to his arm tighter. 

"Do you want my bed? I'll sleep on the floor," Louis offered once they made it to his room. 

They had not brought a lamp up with them and only moonlight broke through the darkness. Harry thought that Louis looked like a ghost in the light. He closed his eyes a moment to chase away the thought. 

Harry shook his head. "We both fit in it." 

There was a pause, a moment during which Louis staggered slightly on his feet, before he nodded. "Oh, yeah." 

Harry tried to climb on the bed, but what he did was more akin to collapsing. He laughed again. All he did was laugh. It was a fun night. Louis joined him and Harry pressed his back to the wall so he would have room to lay down. Louis turned on his side, his face inches away from Harry's, his eyes searching his face. 

"Hi," Louis whispered. His breath was heavy with whiskey. 

"Hey," Harry replied, blinking slowly. He did not know where to put his hands, where to put his legs. His instinct was to wrap them around Louis, pulling him close, but he could not, he would not. "This is bringing back memories," he added, letting his hand fall a few inches away from Louis'. 

"Unlikewise," Louis replied, an amused smile stretching his lips. His hand bumped against Harry's and stayed there. 

Harry held his breath and looked down at their hands, lightly pressed against each other on the mattress. The contact was subtle enough that it could be denied, excused as a mistake. He was not sure he wanted to. 

"That's not a word," Harry countered. 

"Shh. It doesn't matter." 

Louis was silent for a moment and Harry worried he would fall asleep before he spoke again. The pitter-patter of the rain against the window was soothing, and he could feel the alcohol pulling him down. He blinked a few times and stifled a yawn. 

"What kind of memories is it bringing back?" Louis asked. He pushed his hand more firmly against Harry's. 

"Um, we used to do this a lot. My father has always been… difficult, so I would seek refuge at your house." 

"Does he… hurt you?" Louis was cautious, his voice barely above a breath. 

Harry shook his head, eager to dismiss the topic. "Only with words. So, um, yes. I slept in your bed many times." 

Emboldened, it seemed, by Harry's words, Louis placed his hand over Harry's, squeezing it. "I'm happy you're here. And it's all right that you don't want to give me details about what we did before when you talk about memories. It's private, I respect that." The end of his words were slurred, like his tongue was too heavy for his mouth and speaking required too much effort. 

Harry did not want to think about how his own sounded. His mouth felt like it was made of cotton. 

"You must have a guess… you read our letters." 

Louis shrugged. "Only mine. Yours were lost. And it's very… coded." 

"They were being read by the army before they were sent and received. We had to." 

"Hm. Makes sense," Louis yawned. "I suppose before the war I would have kissed you goodnight?" 

Harry inhaled sharply. "It's the alcohol speaking," he said, needing an excuse to process what Louis had just said. 

Louis shook his head and rubbed at one of his eyes. "No. Well, the alcohol makes me courageous enough to say it, but no. I think about kissing you, lately." 

His heart thumping fast enough to make him feel out of breath, Harry rolled on his back, pulling his hand from under Louis'. "Stop that." 

"Sorry," Louis replied, moving away from Harry, widening the space between them as much as he could. "I went too far." 

Harry sighed, staring at the ceiling, gathering every shred of courage he possessed. "I'm not scared of you anymore. But we're drunk. Nothing counts when we're drunk." 

It was Louis' turn to sigh. "I don't think I could say these things sober." 

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Me neither. But until we can…" 

"Yes." Louis sighed once more, yawning halfway through it. "Good night, then." 

"Good night." 

Harry lay awake for a long time, listening to the slow rhythm of Louis' breath, only relaxing when it turned deeper in sleep. Thoughts were going through his intoxicated mind too fast for him to make sense of them, dizzying and maddening, leaving an overall feeling that something had changed between them. Something big, something for the best. He did not dare hold on to any sort of hope, but it was possible that things were looking up for them. 

*** 

Harry had hoped, when he woke up in Louis' bed, that he might have forgotten everything that happened the night before, but he was not so lucky. Their last conversation stayed in his mind, haunting him day and night, pushing him to avoid Louis once more. He did not have the courage to face him, not when he had admitted too much, more than he was willing to at the time. 

Louis was seeking him out, Harry could tell, but he retreated back into isolation, skipping their evening walks and leaving for work earlier than usual so Louis would miss him. He was taking the coward's way out, but it was too immense to contemplate, the possibility that Louis might be ready to be his lover once more. He had been saying that he wanted to get there, but knowing that he had reached that point was terrifying. Harry might have told Louis he was no longer scared of him, but it turned out that  was mostly a lie. It distressed him to know he had not progressed while Louis had moved forward. 

Niall tried to talk to Harry, which meant Louis had talked to Niall, but Harry shut him down whenever he tried to bring it up, eventually avoiding Niall as well. 

Two weeks went by and Harry regressed even more, talking himself into darker and darker thoughts. He would let Louis go, tell him that he should move on with his life, find a job, find a wife. It would be for the best. There was no use keeping him anchored here any longer, not when Harry might never come around to wanting him back. It was _cruel_ to keep him waiting. 

Besides, Harry might never get a life bigger than this. He could not expect Louis to settle for the almost nothing that Harry could give him. It broke his heart to imagine letting him go, but it was the right thing to do. The more he thought about it, the more he knew it was what had to be done. He would tell Louis, he would set him free. 

It took another week for Harry to have the courage to knock on the Tomlinsons' door. It was a warm August evening and the sky was alive with fiery colours as the sun set, its dying light blinding Harry as it reflected on the Tomlinsons' windows. 

It was Louis who opened the door. "Oh, Harry, hi. It's been a while." 

Harry thought he heard a hint of hurt in Louis' voice. He swallowed thickly. "Hi, Louis. We have to talk." 

"Yes." Louis shut the door behind him and Harry took a step back. "We do. Come on." 

When Harry had imagined the scene, they were sitting on the Tomlinsons' porch. That way, he could leave whenever he wanted. He had not planned to go on a walk with him, he did not know what he would do once the conversation was over, it was ruining his carefully crafted plan. He followed Louis nonetheless, silent. 

Louis knew where he was going and Harry did not ask, his words died in his throat whenever he tried to speak. For a while they kept to the road and they might have been headed anywhere, but when Louis turned on a path branching off, Harry knew, with a sinking feeling, where they were going. Harry searched for the sound, waiting for the first second he would hear it, for the soft gurgling of the river to confirm that he truly had guessed their destination. When he did hear it, his anticipation turned to dread. 

There was no way that Louis could know the weight that this place carried for them. He could not know that they had spent entire summer days swimming in the cold water of the river and laying in the sun to warm up, naked and feeling as though they were alone in the entire world. He had no idea that the river had been their refuge, their slice of paradise away from prying eyes and closed minds. 

Louis sat on the river bank and Harry kept a good distance between them when he joined him. The setting sun was playing with the water current, painting the river gold. It was blinding to look at, so Harry cast his gaze on his hands. 

"I want to speak first," Louis said. "Because I think I know what you want to say and I want to talk first." When Harry said nothing in reply, Louis took in a sharp inhale. "I've been thinking a lot about the last time we were together. What we said in my bed." 

"Me too," Harry said in a whisper. 

"About wanting to kiss you. I…" Louis faltered, "I meant it. In the past months, when you finally began opening up, I… I really grew to like you. I know that I don't know you nearly as much as I did before and I might never get back there, but you've… you're woven into my life and I can't imagine being without you. You've been avoiding me and it only made it clearer. I don't know why you avoid me though… you said you weren't scared of me anymore. You said I should be bold and take what I wanted and I tried, that night, but… that scared you away. So tell me what I'm supposed to do." 

Looking up from plucking at pieces of grass, Harry sighed. "You're right, I'm still scared." 

"What are you scared of? Maybe I can help?" 

"I don't know, I…" Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I think I'm scared of losing you again, I won't survive it if I lose you again." 

"Why would you lose me again?" 

"I lost you with the war, then I thought you were dead, but you weren't, so I thought I had you back, but then you didn't even know who I was! So pardon me if I'm not rushing into what can only hurt me again!" 

"Hey, hey, no need to lose your temper, I was just asking," Louis said, his voice soft and placating. Harry immediately felt stupid that he raised his voice. "I can't promise that you won't lose me again, but I promise to do my best so you don't have to. I have no intention of deserting you again." He looked at Harry, his emotions written plainly on his face. "I might not… share your memories of our past, but I'm still Louis. I don't know if I'm the same as before, but I… I feel drawn to you. It's like I know how important you are and I can't explain it, I just feel it." 

Louis shook his head, closed his eyes. "I'm not above begging you… I've reached that point." He sighed. "What did you want to tell me?" 

Conflicting emotions swirled inside of Harry, a whirlwind of diverging thoughts fighting for the forefront. He knew a turning point when he saw one: this was it. He had to make a choice. He had to choose between being brave and being a coward. 

Harry looked at Louis, _really_ looked at him. The silver threads in his hair shining in the dying light, the scar on his forehead, the lines on his face that were completely foreign to Harry, who had once known his face by heart. The sadness in his blue eyes and the hollows of his cheeks, their childish plumpness gone after years of hardship. This boy—this man, could he really imagine a life without him, no matter how it would be? He would have moved oceans and continents to find him because his instinct said he was not dead, and he was about to give him up because he was damaged? 

All of the thoughts Harry had rationalised over the weeks dissolved like smoke as he looked at the only person who had ever truly mattered to him. How could he have thought he might give him up? His mind was his worst enemy. 

"Nothing," Harry finally said, looking down at his hands. "It's not important." And then, "Okay. I'm in." 

"What?" Louis cocked his head, blinked. 

"I'm in. I spent months trying to find excuses to push you away and they don't make sense. I'm tired, Louis." Harry swallowed, looked up, meeting Louis' eyes. "I cannot live without you. I don't want to. I tried it and I hated it and I'm in. I'm still scared, but I want you." The words came out of Harry in a rush, as though he was pushing them out for fear they would slip away and take his courage with them. 

Understanding dawned on Louis' face, his lips spreading into a smile. "You're in?" 

Harry nodded. "We get to be happy, after all this. After all these years. I'm sorry I kept us miserable for so long. I don't know why I fought that I still love you so violently. I do. There's no Harry without his love for Louis, it's always been this way." 

Harry reached forward, his hand bridging the space between them, to cup Louis' face. Louis leaned against it, pressing his cheek into Harry's palm, closing his eyes. 

"Thank you," he breathed out. 

Slowly, as though trying not to disturb the air around them, Harry inched closer, licking his lips. Louis fluttered his eyes open, just for a second, before he shut them again as Harry leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips. 

It felt like he had finally come home. 

Breathing out through his nose, Louis gripped Harry's wrist, keeping his hand on his face, and kissed back. Harry could feel Louis' tears against his cheek and he pulled him closer, his free hand cupping the nape of his neck, pulling him in. 

"You're found," Harry whispered, pressing their foreheads together. "I found you. We're okay, now. We're okay." 

And for the first time in years, Harry meant it. 

*** 

The sky was painted bright red by the sunset as Harry walked down the few steps of the college, almost blinding as it reflected off the windows of the buildings lining the busy street. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes and headed towards the Tube station, pondering what he might need to buy at the shop before he headed home and made dinner. The air was crisp, biting with cold, and Harry tightened the collar of his coat around his neck as he threaded through the crowd. 

It had been months since his asthma was a problem, the help of a proper doctor with modern treatments turning Harry's life around, from nearly bedridden to someone able to function in society. No more opium for him, and his first winter without pneumonia in as long as he could remember. It was a new life and it still amazed him that he could walk through London without fear of an attack incapacitating him. 

The train was packed and Harry was glad when he reached his station and could exit the crowd. The streets of Hampstead were quieter and he heaved out a sigh, relieved, and already in a better mood than earlier. In the dying light of day, he headed to their favourite shop and picked a few ingredients for dinner, having settled on making a soup. Louis would be frozen once he got home, he would need the warmth. 

With an effort, balancing his bags to reach into his pocket, Harry unlocked the front door of Cousin Mary's—his - house, turning the lights on as he walked to the kitchen. After her husband had died, having no family left other than Harry's mother, she had asked if she might move out of the city and into their home, saying she could not stay in a house that had seen everyone she loved die. Harry would not have asked, but when she heard of his plans to move to the city for his education, she insisted he stay in her house. 

"It's already paid for," she had said. "I'd rather it stays in the family. There's plenty of room for you and your friend, it has two bedrooms, and Hampstead would be better for your lungs than whatever dingy flat you could find. You do what you want with it. I never want to set foot in there again." She had pressed the keys into his hand and that had been the end of the conversation. 

Six months later, Harry still could not believe his luck. The house had required a lot of renovations and it was only about a month since they were finally satisfied with the results, having repainted it all and sold the old furniture to get new, more modern fixtures. 

Harry placed his bags on the counter and turned on the radio, checking the time to see if he was too late for the news broadcast, just as he heard, ' _And now the news for the 14th January 1921_ '. 

Two years had passed since he had found Louis, skin and bones and completely lost in a military hospital. The memories still gripped his heart, cut his breath short. They had come so far since the early months after Louis' return, both scared and tiptoeing around each other. The future had seemed bleak to Harry, then, small and barely stretching beyond the limits of his parents' property. 

Shaking off the cloud of melancholy that drifted through his mind, Harry got busy preparing dinner. Months ago, he had sworn he would never get used to electricity, making Louis laugh as he would flip switches for the near magic of seeing the lights turn on and off, but time proved him wrong and he barely thought about it anymore. He had been confronted with how wrong he had been when he was back home for Christmas, and remembered what life had been like with oil lamps and fire stoves. 

A smile stretched across his face when he heard the front door open and close. "In the kitchen!" he called, turning in time to see Louis come in. "I'm making soup!" 

"I can smell that," Louis replied, walking over and pressing a kiss to Harry's lips. "Hi, dearest." 

"Hi." Harry kissed him back for a few seconds, careful not to touch Louis' dirty clothes. "How was your day?" 

Upon their arrival in London, Louis had found a job as a handyman for the parish. Harry had insisted he try to go to school too, but Louis had brushed it off, saying he was glad to work to support them while Harry studied. The deal was that once Harry was hired as a teacher, it would be Louis' turn to find something he loved doing. Harry suspected though, that he liked the job he already had, and would not leave it. It was common for him to come home with baked goods offered by parishioners to thank him for his services. The irony of it all was not lost on either of them. 

"The usual, nothing much to say. I can't wait to hear all about what you learned today, smart boy. I'll go wash up while you finish, hm?" he replied, already heading up the stairs. 

Harry sighed, content, as their routine unfolded around him. A cheerful song was playing on the radio and Harry raised the volume, humming along as he finished cooking. He uncorked a bottle of wine that he had bought earlier with money he had been saving, already happy at the idea that they would talk around it through the evening, reminiscing about everything that had happened in the past two years. They would eventually make it upstairs to their room, where they would make love, and either go to sleep, or continue reading out loud to one another from the latest book of poetry Harry had checked out of the library, until one of them fell asleep. 

Despite fate working against them for years, they finally had the life they had been dreaming of since they were children. They were finally, thoroughly, and completely happy. 

The End. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! You can find me on Tumblr under [scrunchyharry](http://scrunchyharry.tumblr.com/). Reblog [the tumblr post](https://scrunchyharry.tumblr.com/post/184201053198/fondre-ton-absence-by-scrunchyharry-41314) if you enjoyed it!


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